


Evil actions and good intentions

by Alphawave



Series: The universe sings [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, And UGH I love this ship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Jokes, Doing space dad things, Eventual Happy Ending, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's a slow burn type of romance, M/M, Medical Trauma, Past Relationship(s), Sigma and Dr Winston get back together guys don't worry, Sigma and Dr. Winston were boyfriends until the monkey rebellion, space dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-08-14 10:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphawave/pseuds/Alphawave
Summary: On Talon's orders, Sigma rescues Dr. Harold Winston from space to be their newest recruit and researcher. Finally back on Earth after being stranded in space for over a decade, Harold is alive but unwell, his condition being carefully monitored by Talon. The one familiar face he recognises is Dr. Siebren de Kuiper, his lover before the accident, who secretly longs to begin their old romance anew.Can love blossom between the two men once more, even when they're old and grey? And what sinister plans does Talon have for Dr. Harold Winston?





	1. The Jade Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently my favourite ship type is 'lovers that suffer similar struggles with opposite effects, with abilities that complement each other perfectly, while also being able to make fun of one another'. You'll see what I mean when you read this.

Chapter 1: The Jade Rabbit

Despite every report in the world, Dr. Harold Winston is still alive. He breathes and eats, smiles and sleeps, stuck in a cocoon of his own making. Wires and tubes run down his neck and through his hand, removing the toxins that constantly build up in his blood. He cannot breathe by the effort of his own lungs anymore, a mechanical ventilator always on his person, pumping the air for him, filtering it for him. Wounds that take ordinary men days to recover from now take him minutes, at the cost of countless injections every day.

There’s no question that he’s alive. Whether he’s living or not, that’s harder to answer.

Harold tells Sigma all this as they walk along Horizon two lunar base to a single spacecraft. His body fails him, but his mind is strong and resilient, the complete opposite to Sigma. As the shuttle escapes the gravitational pull of the moon, Harold stares not at the vastness of space or the stars glittering in the distance nor the faint shape of Mars out in the distance. No, all his attention is down on Earth, beautiful Earth, full of conflict and love and turmoil and kindness.

“Ever heard the story of the Jade rabbit? In Chinese folklore, it’s the companion to the moon goddess Chang’e, stuck up on the moon because she drank the elixir of eternal life for her. And this little rabbit, poor little thing, it makes it for her every day, pounding away with a little mortar and pestle, giving her the elixir even though she can never be with her husband back down on Earth.” Harold glances back at the moon and sighs, “I wonder if she ever asked the rabbit to stop giving her the elixir? Asked it to give it to someone else, or to stop making it altogether? Will she still take it even when her husband is no more?”

Sigma has no answer. In another time, he’d pull Harold into a kiss and cry happy tears, knowing that his friend, his lover of so many years, is still alive. But they’re not lovers anymore. They’re two old men who haven’t seen each other in decades. He doesn’t know if the spark is still there. He’s not entirely sure he’s still the same man anymore, or if he’s someone else trying to hold together a stranger’s memories.

He looks into Harold’s eyes, old and baggy and wrinkled, and sees something flickering within. Something familiar and warm that makes his heart ache. Gravity fluctuates within the cabin of the spacecraft.

“Siebren?” Harold asks.

He wills himself to calm, focuses his mind on music and melodies, equations and numbers. He has to concentrate on maintaining the gravity field around them. Harold’s body can no longer handle the supreme amounts of G-force necessary for space travel. It’s only because of his abilities that Harold can survive the trip back down to Earth. He hums a silent tune and gravity is normal once again. A weight lifts off his shoulders.

Harold smiles gently in gratitude. He adjusts the nasal tube that hangs over his ears and Sigma is reminded of the last time Harold looked at him like that, with all the amazement and wonder a man can hold for another. Sigma quickly turns his head away, concentrating on the controls. He doesn't want to get his hopes up. It's been too long. They're both too old for romance.

The shuttle lands, butter-smooth, at an abandoned building. Harold almost leaps out of the shuttle, eager to escape. The door opens, and he stares at the walkway made of plastic and metal. He took a ginger step forward, then another. His walking is wobbly. He loses his balance, but Sigma is quick to catch him, lifting him up with a gloved hand.

“H-Harold, slow down.”

“I’m sorry,” Harold smiles sheepishly. “It’s just…I’m home, Siebren. I’m finally home. And it’s thanks to you.”

Sigma smiles bittersweetly. Home for Sigma is back in The Netherlands, but he can never set foot there. “Don’t thank me until you can walk on your own two feet.” Softer, he adds, “You sure you don’t want my assistance?”

Harold smirks. “Well, my feet are rather tired.”

“I’m not carrying you,” Sigma says pointedly.

“Why not? It'll be just like old times.”

“That was back on Horizon One twenty years ago, and we were both in microgravity. A child could carry you in those conditions.”

“But it wasn’t a child, it was you. And I’m a deceptively heavy guy despite my height.” Harold grins as he shuffles closer to Sigma. “I remember this dashing young man.”

"I wasn't young," Sigma interrupts.

"—middle-aged man rush from the opposite side of the room to catch me. He broke my fall. I could've hurt myself badly."

“A fall of one metre,” Sigma states. “Which, in microgravity, meant that instead of falling at an approximate 9.807 metres per seconds squared, you’d be falling at—”

“OK, OK. I get it. No need to quote the gravity formula with me.”

Sigma relaxes. “I’m just telling you that logically, you wouldn’t have injured yourself.”

“You still caught me though,” Harold pointed out. He looped his arm with Sigma’s. “And you still caught me today, hero.”

There’s a part of him that wants to tell Harold that he’s not a hero. That he’s done some terrible things when the pieces of his mind fracture and splinter. He wants to tell Harold that a man can be evil by their action and inaction, but Harold stares at the ruins of the airport like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world and Sigma stays silent. Harold has been trapped on the moon for decades. He doesn't want to ruin Harold's good mood.

They walk down the runway and into the ruins of a large building. Once upon a time this was an airport, but it’s long been abandoned. The elevators and escalators don’t work, rust and dust settling on the metal, undisturbed for years until this very moment. Vines creep up the brick and over the screens, wrapping everything in its embrace. There are trash cans and skittering mice and broken vending machines still filled with snacks. Sigma leads Harold down the terminal, past the shuttered stores and the broken windows to the entrance. It's only there that Sigma finally lets go of Harold's hand. Talon waits for him here. They want to see their latest rescue.

Doomfist stands by the shattered doors, flanked on either side by Moira and Reaper. Their eyes glance from Sigma to Harold, gazes flickering across the various wires and tubes that sink into Harold’s skin. Doomfist frowns slightly, but the rest do not react. He extends his hand in greeting. “Akande Ogundimu. You must be Specimen 31.”

Harold takes the hand offered to him and shakes it. His eyes narrow. “My name is Dr. Harold Winston.”

“So it’s not true you took the same treatment as your precious test subjects?”

“I didn’t take it by choice. And they were living beings, not test subjects,” Harold grits his teeth.

“But you did what you had to do to survive. I admire that. Even if it came at such a cost.” Doomfist glances down at Harold’s hands, catheters emptying golden liquid into his blood vessels. Harold quickly retreats his hands to his side.

Sigma floats in quickly, taking the space between the two men. “H-Harold, why don’t you introduce yourself to Dr. Moira O’Deorain? She’s a geneticist.”

As if summoned, Moira steps forward. “You are a geneticist yourself, Dr. Winston?” 

“I specialized in astrobiology, so genetics definitely came under that umbrella.” He chuckles politely.

“I think I remember now. You published a paper a few decades ago about the primate genome.”

Harold’s eyes widen. “Yes, I did. Were you one of the few who cited it?”

“Indeed I did. It gave me a great foundation for many of my future projects.” She places her hand on his back and pushes him forward to the airship waiting outside. “Come, we must talk more.”

Harold is barely able to wave back to Sigma before he’s pushed out of the building and forced inside the airship. As soon as Harold is out of sight, Doomfist and Reaper gaze coldly at Sigma.

“You’re sure this is the right man, Sigma?” Doomfist asks.

Sigma's brows furrow. “Dr. Harold Winston—”

“Subject: 31,” Doomfist interrupts.

“—was and still is a pioneer in his field. His work on extremophiles was a revolution on how humans and animals might adapt to the reaches of space.”

Reaper turns to Doomfist, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re sure he’s the right man for this?”

“From the reports I gathered, one of the projects he’s been working on is an upgrade to the serum. If it works as I suspect it does, it is worth investing.”

“So you’re considering him joining Talon?” Sigma asks hopefully.

“It is a possibility,” Doomfist says vaguely. “Whether or not we ask him to join us, it would be best to see the extent of the damage to his body. Then we may discuss contracts.”

Sigma watches as Doomfist walks away. A breath he did not know he’d been holding is released from his chest. He’s floating higher, a symptom of his emotions getting the best of him, and he quickly corrects himself. He turns to Reaper, who watches him from behind his mask. Though Sigma cannot see his eyes, there’s something knowing and malicious in that gaze, like he sees something that Sigma cannot.

“Sigma,” Reaper says slowly, “what’s your relationship with Dr. Winston?”

He recalls their shared past together and frowns. Back when he was Siebren de Kuiper, he had been many things with Dr. Harold Winston. They had been friends and colleagues, bonding over their love for the universe. They were boyfriends and lovers, mapping the galaxies on each other’s skin. They were star-crossed lovers, destined to find and lose each other all over again.

It used to fit them so perfectly, but now their bond escapes description. If only their slate had been wiped clean, but he feels a familiar ache in his bones, a star birthing itself with incredible power and light within his chest.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sigma says finally. “It’s been decades. We’ve changed.”

Reaper nods microscopically. They stand in awkward silence for a few seconds before Sigma begins to head for the airship. He doesn’t float away long before he hears a dark, wispy voice.

“You want that guy around, get him to trust us. Just don't let your past get the better of you.” With those enigmatic words, Reaper goes on ahead. It takes Sigma a second to catch up.

High up in the air, Harold stares at his surroundings with a child-like gaze. The other Talon members sit with their gazes straight ahead. As Harold gazes out of the window, sees the war-torn environment that has yet to recover from the Omnic crisis, Sigma cannot help but stare at him. 

For over a decade, everybody thought Dr. Harold Winston was dead, but it wasn’t true. He’s here, barely breathing but alive, surviving on the scraps of good will he can scavenge. A part of Sigma—a part of Siebren de Kuiper, he corrects himself—wants to go over to Harold and touch him, kiss him in that way he liked and hear that sigh of contentment and prove once and for all that this is still the same man he’s known and loved. But he can’t. Not here. Not now. Probably not ever.

At Talon’s HQ, Sigma is the one tasked to bring Harold to his new room. He’s not sure if they task him with this because he rescued Harold, or if perhaps they are aware of their hidden history. Sigma leads Harold down the winding corridors to a sector deep within the building. They arrive on the basement floor and walk down the lonely corridor before stopping in front of a single door. They open the door slowly.

The whole room is bleach white and stale, too perfect and clean. The few items in this room are made of shiny white plastic that blends with the walls and the air stinks of disinfectant. The bed is covered in a thin film of see-through plastic. It’s a quarantine area, hastily prepared into a makeshift bedroom.

Harold traces his hand over every surface as if it’s all new. “I guess this is my new bedroom, huh, Siebren?”

Sigma stares vacantly, his eyes wide. It’s bigger and a bit more welcoming, but otherwise it looks and feels exactly like the room Sigma was forced to stay in for years back in the government facility. He remembers the way he was manhandled like his escape was only yesterday. He hears the universe plays its melody again, getting louder and louder. The siren lures him into the rocky shoreline. He's shooting off above the atmosphere. 

“Siebren!”

Reality crashes back down. A few objects on the desk rattle but Sigma’s eyes are focused on Harold, eyes glossy and wide not in terror but concern. There’s a hand on his face, caressing him with fondness, and all of a sudden everything is too much. Siebren floats backward, leaving Harold’s hand drifting in mid-air.

The universe’s song is still playing, but it’s muted, quiet. Harold lets out a deep breath. “Siebren, what…what happened to you?”

Sigma wants to lie, but he can’t. Never to Harold Winston. “I had an accident. They told everybody that I was dead. Just like you.”

Harold sighs. “I didn’t ask for this. I tried to contact you all those years ago. When I couldn’t I just thought you’d…give up or something. I don’t know.”

“I didn’t. I mean…I did, and I didn’t.” Sigma mutters to himself in frustration. Numbers and equations were so much easier than words. “Have you been keeping up with current events?”

Harold shakes his head. “Lucheng Interstellar only gave me updates about the outside world if they thought it was important. They told me Overwatch was finished. That’s about all I’ve heard.”

“So you don’t know?”

“About what?”

“They said everybody on Horizon One died. The primates rose up and threw everybody out the airlock. There were no survivors. Nothing about you being stuck at Horizon Two. Nothing about your condition.” Sigma pauses before saying, quieter, “I thought you were dead.”

Harold stares at Sigma for the longest time, hoping against hopes it’s a lie. But there’s nothing but sadness reflected back, and he hugs himself tightly, his skin a sickly white that matched the walls and floors. He forces a laugh out of his lungs, but they both know it’s fake. “I…no wonder you look at me like that. Like I’m a ghost. I just thought it was because we…” Harold turns his head away, running a hand through his silver locks. 

“Our history together,” Sigma finishes. “If I’m honest, I wish it was. Maybe then I’d know how I feel about seeing you after all this time.”

“So how do you feel then?” Harold asks quietly.

“Relieved. Hurt. Happy.” Sigma clenches and unclenches his hand. “Confused.”

Harold stares at his shoes, worn and tired like his face. All the happiness and joy he felt today washed away with the tide.

“I’ll…leave you alone, Harold. If you need me, I’m the next room over.” He hovers by the door and rests his hand on the edge. “I’ll see you at dinner time. I'll show you around the base then.”

“Wait, Siebren.”

He turns around, a slave to his instincts. Harold approaches him, fire and brimstone in his eyes. He almost expects Harold to wrap his arms around his neck and kiss him at that junction between his jaw and his neck like nothing has changed at all, like love can still flourish after decades. But reality, like the universe, can be cruel and unkind. Harold brushes his thumb over Sigma’s cheekbone tenderly. If only Harold knew that his touch could unravel him so. If only Harold could feel the currents of gravity pulling them towards each other.

“I’m glad to have a familiar face around after all this time,” Harold admits. "I'm glad to see you."

_ I miss you too, _ Sigma does not say back.


	2. Phoenix Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a simple story, but then I had to research astrobiology, and the effects of spaceflight on the human body, and CPAP masks and uh...yeah, if anyone says fanfiction is not real writing, I clearly have not got the memo.

Chapter 2: Phoenix Down

_He was so blind. Blind to his colleague’s treatment of the animals. Blind to the growing dissatisfaction amongst the gorillas. Blind to the rebellion growing in everyone’s eyes. A war was brewing, but he was distracted. In a few weeks time, he would be back on Earth. In a few weeks time, he would see Siebren again. They already had so much planned. He’d tell Siebren about all the specimens and their wonderful progress, the fulfillment in their life. Siebren would finally introduce Harold to his mother for coffee. They’d chat and laugh, and then when Siebren least expects it, Harold would go down on one knee and propose. It would be like the fairy tales he’s told to the animals. It would be magical, beautiful, perfect._

_But that day never arrived. In his quarters, he heard the slide of a card on the card reader._

_“Sport?” He mumbled. Sleep was an elusive beast and time was no longer linear in space, but he checked his clock anyway. He had been sleeping for two hours. Only Specimen 28 would approach him at this time of night. After all, he was the only other being to have the card to his door._

_He stifled a yawn as he walked up to the door. It swung open, revealing the imposing figure of a gorilla. The light didn’t turn on. “A bit late, isn’t it, champ?” He smiled sleepily. “Come over to the bed. I've got just the bedtime book for you.”_

_Before he can react, the gorilla grabbed him by the neck and shoved him to the wall, their free hand covering his mouth. Two more gorillas walked into the room. As the light filtered in from the hallway, Harold realized it wasn’t Specimen 28 in front of him but Simon. Hypatia was busy going through Harold's computer while Specimen 28 stood near the doorway, mutters of discomfort escaping his throat. Harold couldn’t stop staring at him. _

_“For years you have pushed us aside and locked us in cages, my brothers and sisters and I,” Simon growled. “For years you take us away from our home and experiment with us, injecting us with foul poisons that curse our bloodstream. But we are animals. We are better than you lowly humans.”_

_Simon shoved him to the wall, the grip on his neck tightening. Harold gasped, wincing in the pain, trying to pat Simon to let him down. _

_“Let him go, Simon!” Specimen 28 screamed. “Dr. Winston hasn’t done anything to us. He’s only been kind, and caring.”_

_Simon swiveled his head. “He’s one of them.”_

_“He's our father!” The fur and skin on Specimen 28's body seemed to be turning red._

_Simon glanced between Harold and Specimen 28. He let out an animalistic huff and dropped Harold on the floor. He breathed deeply, gasping for air with desperate breaths. Simon approached him while he was down and ripped the glasses off his face, throwing them over his shoulder. Specimen 28 scrambled to catch them, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. His skin seemed to be returning back to normal._

_“You’re going to do what we tell you to do," Simon sneered. "You’re going to tell the scientists that there was an emergency malfunction at airlock E-35. Bring them all there.”_

_Hypatia grabbed him by the shirt and flung him to the lone computer terminal in his room. She gestured at it. “Type.”_

_Harold stared at Specimen 28, who turned his head away. Bruises were forming at his neck, and it still hurt to breathe, but he knew he had no choice. Standing up against the gorillas will just make him their enemy. Bloodlust filled their eyes, making them see red. They itch for battle and bloodshed and death. Everyone was going to die anyway. It was just a matter of time._

_He turned on the computer and typed his final message to the other scientists. He could only hope they realized something was wrong by his incorrect use of grammar. He leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. He sobbed quietly, his body shaking as he desperately tried to calm his mind in this dark, claustrophobic room._

* * *

It’s his first morning in Talon’s HQ, but already he’s made himself comfortable. Siebren—or Sigma, as he now calls himself—has showed him around the base so thoroughly that he already knew the way to the common break room. It’s no different to the break rooms up in Horizon and the universities he’s worked at in the past. There’s a fridge with groceries, a coffee machine, a kettle, and a variety of tea types. Harold makes himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with some coffee, sitting down next to Siebren. He glances at Siebren’s breakfast food of choice: a single stroopwafel over a mug of earl grey tea. He’s tempted to remind Siebren about his unhealthy breakfast habits, but decides against it. His own breakfast isn’t that healthy either, but after eating space food for decades, he will kill for anything that's remotely solid.

Siebren has his phone out, eyes closed, headphones placed over his ears. Harold is tempted to ask Siebren what he’s listening to, but he stops himself before the question can escape his lips. Siebren seems to be enjoying his music, his right hand conducting silently. Many years ago, this was a common enough sight in Harold's life. A smile escapes Harold’s lips as he turns on the tablet in front of him and continues reading the book he’d chosen for himself.

Not long after he’s finished eating his sandwich, a boisterous young woman skips past. She heads for the fridge, stops, then turns to him. Harold does not notice the sly smirk that creeps up her face. Quietly she approaches him, tilting her head over his shoulder. Harold barely pays any attention to her. He’s too engrossed in his story.

“You the new guy, huh?” She pokes at one of the tubes near Harold’s neck. “Anyone ever tell you you look like a cyborg?”

“His name is Harold Winston, and at the moment he’s our guest here,” Sigma says for Harold. His brows crease as he pauses his music. “Please don’t prank him, Sombra.”

“I’m _hurt _you’d think I’d do that, Sigma. Not to my new friend.”

Sigma stares at her, unamused. Her eyes glance down at Harold’s tablet, still smiling. “Whatcha reading?”

Harold doesn’t look up from his book. He turns to the next page and says, in a serious tone, “Gay erotica.”

Coffee ejects violently from Siebren’s face, a crimson blush caressing his face. Sombra cackles loudly in his ear. “Oh, good one. You really got him,” she sniggers.

“I’m not joking,” Harold says. “When you’re stuck in a space station run by a Chinese space corporation, your options of entertainment are quite limited.” He flips to the next page and frowns. “I’ve forgotten how bad erotica can be.”

“Oh my god, you’re serious,” Sombra laughs in disbelief. Before Harold can protest, Sombra rips the tablet out of his hands. “_Hands caress his inner thigh, drawing soft moans. ‘Yes, yes’, he cries. ‘Give it to me’._” She slowly hands it back to Harold, blinking rapidly in disbelief. “You get off on this stuff?”

“Not when it’s this badly written, no.”

“So you _can _get off on smut like this?”

Harold glances at Siebren beside him, who’s staring very intently at his mug. He suppresses a laugh. “Well, let’s just say I’ve gotten some _interesting ideas_ from books of this genre.”

Siebren’s eyes balloon in size. Harold smirks as he watches Siebren adjust his collar nervously, relishing in the small victory. Siebren coughs loudly in a futile effort of masking his embarrassment. “You…you shouldn’t say that, Harold. What will everyone think?”

“It doesn’t matter what people think about me anymore,” Harold says with a hint of melancholy. “Everybody thinks I’m dead anyway.”

An awkward silence sits in the air. Harold feels Sombra’s eyes burrow into his backside, a thousand possibilities filtering through her head, but he does nothing to stop them. He turns his attention back to his book, letting himself get swept up in the poorly-written fantasy.

* * *

_Reality didn’t settle in until he’s suddenly being carried roughly by the gorillas. They throw him over their shoulder like he weighed nothing, parading his dangling body like a hunter would display a trophy. The subjects hooted and hollered, vicious screams of delight released into the air. He didn’t fight back. He thought that if he played along then maybe they will show him mercy. But they flung him into airlock E-35 and locked it from the outside without so much as a second glance. He banged helplessly on the door. _

_“Please don’t do this. I know you are equals." He tried to think of something that will help him. "I’ll stop the treatments. I've been meaning to stop the treatments. You've read my e-mails, you know it's true. Please, help me!”_

_“Dr. Winston!” He hears Specimen 28 shout from the ruckus. “Dr. Winston! Dr. Win—” There was a grunt, and then the sound of a struggle. He heard someone approach the controls from the other side of the door. It slid open to reveal Specimen 28 , bloodied and bruised and red all over. Quickly, he chucked something at Harold’s feet; an orange space suit and helmet. Specifically it was Harold’s space suit and helmet, never worn. He’d never had the need to venture out of Horizon One._

_“Sport,” Harold gasped._

_Specimen 28 frowned. “Get to Horizon Two.”_

_“Champ!" He pleaded._

_“Hurry!”_

_The door shut again. Harold scrambled to pick up the suit and slip it on. It was a tiring, laborious process that normally required multiple people, but he had to do it. He barely secured his helmet on his head before he heard Simon’s menacing chuckle from the other side. There was a beep, then a warning siren, and suddenly his body was pulled out of the base and onto the surface of the moon. _

_Out in the dark reaches of space, Harold saw the bodies of his colleagues scattered across the ground. Their bodies have expanded to twice their size, making them look like human-shaped balloons. They had no spacesuits to save them, their skin sunburnt and blistering and pale. All his friends were here. Yoshida, Nevsky, they were all dead. _

_And he led them to their doom. He killed them. _

_Harold spared one final glance at the Horizon One lunar base, his home for years. The gorillas were his family in every sense of the word, and he loved them like they were his children, and they were betrayed by the humans that were supposed to nurture and support them. It was no wonder they seek revenge, leaving him and all the other humans to die by the hand of the cold and merciless moon. He couldn’t feel anger, or rage, or even sadness for the trail of events that led to this very moment. All he could feel were the haggard breaths that squeezed his lungs and the crushing guilt that threatened to break his ribs. _

_He checked the coms on the spacesuit, but there was nothing. It was broken. He couldn’t contact Horizon Two to let them know what happened. He couldn’t contact anyone to let him know he was possibly the only survivor._

_Assuming he survived the journey, that is. _

_With a heavy heart, Harold said his goodbyes to the base and walked the surface of the moon, leaving behind his family, his home, and his life._

* * *

His new life in Talon is rather peaceful, which is a bit of a relief. Adventure usually meant danger, and danger is something that Harold has to avoid now, especially given his current physical condition. It’s late in the afternoon and he’s just finished reading the original Grimm Brothers version of ‘The Little Mermaid’ when Moira arrives unannounced. She has come to escort him to the medical bay, where her team will perform a number of medical checks on him. He expects as much. Any sensible organization would have reason for concern when they see him and the tubes that stab into his skin. He’s a dead man walking. They just don’t know it yet.

He follows Moira to a small clinic room all set out for him. It’s been recently sterilized, the scent of the detergent still lingering in the air. Various medical machines and equipment stand beside a standard hospital bed. Another doctor takes Moira’s place and gestures for him to lie down on the examination table in the centre of the room. He complies, his eyes squinting at the bright lamp above his head. He almost expects a nurse to come in to take his dental records, but he does not get the luxury of familiarity. They strap him in snugly, a blanket covering his body.

“We are going to perform a full medical examination on you, Dr. Winston,” the doctor smiles tightly. In the past, Harold might have found the young doctor attractive, but fear fills his lungs and he lies paralysed. The doctor notices his hesitation. “Do we have your consent?”

Harold wills himself to calm. He tells him the story of Jack and Jill in his head and lets out a quiet breath. “Sorry. I’ve just had some bad experience with medical examinations in the past.”

“Oh? If it’s not too much trouble, may I ask about your previous experiences?” Harold’s lips twist into an ugly expression. The doctor frowned slightly. “It’s fine, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Harold doesn't want to say anything lest the horrible memories resurface, but he knows that silence is not an option. “I…it’s fine, I just…the last time I had a proper medical examination, I nearly lost function of my lungs.”

“Your lungs?!"

He slowly pulls the blanket back and gestures at a mechanical ventilator on his person. The doctor takes it in stride, but he can see the nervous glint in their eyes. Harold’s used to people walking around eggshells around him.

“I’m not going to stop breathing if you disconnect it,” he explains. “It just takes a lot more effort if I don’t have this on.”

The doctor nods shallowly, making a note on his pad. “I’m going to ask some questions about your health, and then I’m going to perform some tests. You might experience some discomfort when I draw the blood but otherwise it should be painless. If you feel uncomfortable, do let me know. Depending on what I might find, I might also ask for some additional screenings.”

Much as he would like to skip this step, Harold has no choice but to comply. He submits himself to the tests, trying his hardest to forget the last time he went through this ordeal, barely a month ago. The Talon medical team are professionals, but they treat him with the same callous disregard as did the Horizon medical team. He’s a patient first, and a human being second. It's familiar in all the worst ways.

He closes his eyes as he’s hooked up to a machine. The splutter of the electronics do little to ease his discomfort.

A full medical examination from Harold’s experience is long and tiring. It’s no surprise when, after the first set of tests have been completed, the doctor asks for permission to perform additional screenings. He gets X-rays, and MRI scans, and probing, invasive questions about his medical history. The only good thing about the ordeal is that Harold himself tends to become familiar with the doctor performing the tests. Dr. Irvin Laszlo is a kind if emotionless man, with pale skin and steady hands and a zero-tolerance policy for jokes and jests of any kind.

It’s while they’re waiting for the results of the final test—a gene marker that will determine his susceptibility to an array of common diseases—that he notices Irvin sigh deeply. Their fingers rub circles around their temple. Harold has to stop himself from coming over and doing something about it. It was small things like this that caused the gorilla rebellion in Horizon One so many years ago. A sigh of annoyance here, an overreaction there. It all adds up. He feels the power drift into his fingertips but does not dare release it. A memory of the last time he used this power plays in his memory. He remembers that betrayal well, and it's that betrayal alone that makes his blood boil. He vows never to make that mistake again.

The final test results of the day are finished. The rest require a few more days to be processed. Harold doesn’t need to see the final paper of the day to know it’s bad; all he has to do is look at Irvin’s even-paler-than-normal face.

“How are you alive?” Irvin gasps.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just…well…” Irvin’s brows furrow. “In the condition you are in, you’d be comatose in the ICU ward of a hospital, but here you are.” They scratch their head. “Shouldn’t you be in constant pain?”

“Of course I am. But after a decade, you learn to live with it.” Harold chuckles. “Of course, I’ve got a little bit of help to deal with everything.”

“The serum in your systems,” Irvin surmises. “I wonder how it works.”

The serum that saved his life, the serum that’s ruined his life, that’s all that people cared about. Not about him and the constant pain of living and the utter loneliness of being stuck on the moon. He sees now how Irvin looks at him, like a curious experiment that needs to be dissected. All the other scientists on Horizon looked at the gorillas like that too.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Harold mutters, too quiet for Irvin to hear.

* * *

_The lunar buggy had run out of fuel a long time ago, his oxygen supplies were dwindling, and he was absolutely alone. He didn’t have the proper underclothes and thus his EVA spacesuit scratched at his arms and legs. He’d been walking for hours, but he still couldn't find Horizon Two base. Polaris shone above his head, achingly familiar and hauntingly beautiful. It wasn't true north like it was on Earth, he knew that, but it was his only guide for direction. _

_It was almost ironic, his fate. He’d spent all his childhood watching the moon with utter fascination and love, wondering what it would be like to live there. Now, he would die on the moon, his home away from home, the one place he felt accepted and respected. The one place he had finally found love. _

_His hand bumped against the syringe he kept in his underclothes, light in weight but heavy in depth. The last genetic therapy treatment meant for Specimen 28. A genetic treatment specifically designed to reduce the burdens of space travel._

_He hesitated to use it, even though it was his lifeline. Taking aside the dangers of removing his spacesuit for even a second, the treatment was designed for gorillas in mind, not humans. If he injected it into himself, he had no idea what would happen. Perhaps it will do what it’s supposed to do and keep him alive for longer—maybe long enough to reach Horizon Two—but there was also a huge risk involved. Many of the gorillas became aggressive. Some subjects rejected the serum altogether, with devastating consequences. There was every chance that could happen to him as well._

_Wasthe risk really worth it? Wouldn’t be better to just let go and succumb? Forget it all and die on the surface of the moon? No one would miss him. Not his sister, living her life in Lijiang without a care or thought about him. Not his colleagues, who would forget about him with the spin of the Earth. The only ones who's miss him were Specimen 28 and Siebren. _

_Harold stared up at the big, blue Earth. God, what would Siebren say? Would Siebren mourn for him? No, that was a stupid question, of course he would. Siebren might pretend to be a proud man too intelligent for emotions, but in private he cared. Harold could not recall the countless amount of times he’d caught Siebren, teary eyed after he read him a particularly sad story. Harold could not recall the times Siebren hugged him tightly and hummed the nursery songs of his childhood. This was the man Harold was going to propose to. This was the man he was going to leave behind if he died._

_"No," he said, his face solemn and resolute. "I have to get back to him."_

_He fished out the syringe and held it tightly in his hands. His arms shook in fear and purpose. He held his breath and ripped the front of his spacesuit off for just a second, the syringe’s needle pressing into his left arm. Golden liquid sank into his skin, making his arm glow faintly with unnatural light. He secured his spacesuit once more just as he felt a strange warmth flow through his veins. The pain from the injection went away almost in an instant. His short sightedness was gone, the world in perfect clarity, and it's barren and beautiful and so, so empty. In the far distance, he could barely see the top of the Horizon Two lunar base. He felt stronger, like nothing was the limit anymore, like he could climb every mountain and swim ever river. He felt invincible. _

_And then, all too suddenly, a terrible pain seized his head. Pain and terror wrapped around his body, the cobra's embrace tightening, tightening. He could feel his life disappear in his breath. He closed his eyes for a second, and succumbed to the darkness, repeating the words he'd never get to say to Siebren ever again. _

_"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

_When he opened them again, he was in another room altogether. _

_A medical bay was before him, similar in appearance and construction to Horizon One's medical bay. His eyesight was still clear, but even if he was still shortsighted, he could see the thick black straps that pinned him down to the bed, the wires connected to every open surface of skin. _

_“He’s awake,” a person said. “Subject: 31 is awake.”_

_Harold tried to concentrate on the figure, but the world was beginning to spin. He was faintly aware of liquid rushing faster into his blood. All he could see was a mop of dark curly hair before he collapsed. _

_The sound of a dissatisfied hum filled the room. “Dr. Williams, shouldn’t he be asleep already?”_

_Someone else in the room huffed. It’s low, but vaguely feminine. “He should be dead by now, no thanks to you. We’ve already taken a litre of his blood.”_

_“But you haven’t extracted the serum, have you? We need it. Look what it’s done to his body. Accelerated growth and regeneration. Muscle mass has increased, and has been maintained for months! RBC and WBC production is through the chart, and yet he’s shown no signs of developing cancer. If we only figured out how it works.”_

_“He’s still just a man. Remember the Soldier Enhancement Program?”_

_Harold groaned, forcing himself to sit up. The two people in the room stared at him, eyes wide and pupils tiny. He saw his reflection in the machines hooked up to him, pale and thin with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. The picture of death. _

_He tried to rise from his bed, but a hand pushed him down with terrifying power. The woman screamed. The man clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction. _

_“Put him to sleep already!” They growled._

_Harold thrashed violently, shouting with the full effort of his lungs until he suddenly stopped. The last thing he heard was the drone of the machines by his bedside._

* * *

Harold wakes up from a tireless slumber. He teared the mask off his CPAP machine and gently placed it down on the bedside table next to him. Nightmares fade away into the whispers of the night, leaving behind an empty space in his memory. He doesn’t expect company here in Talon, which is why he’s surprised to find Siebren here, napping in the armchair opposite the bed, a tray full of breakfast food on his lap.

He could feel his breathing stop then and there. It’s been so long since anyone has done this for him. It’s been so long since Siebren has done this for him.

Slowly, he rises up from his bed and approached Siebren, chuckling softly. He taps him lightly on the face, smiling. “Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”

Siebren stirs, then blinks, rubbing the sandman’s dust away from his eyes. He glances around the room, then at the breakfast tray on his lap, then finally at Harold himself. He smiles sheepishly as he lifts it slightly.

“I, uh…thought you might like breakfast.”

Harold glances down at the smorgasbord of food items on the massive tray; there’s toast and scrambled eggs and ham on a gigantic plate, flanked on either side by two mugs filled with coffee and tea respectively. Stroopwafels lie on top of the mugs.

Harold smiles knowingly at Siebren. “You know I can’t eat this much.”

“I know, I know. I just thought it would be nice to make you feel welcome here.” The corner of Siebren’s lips quirks upward. “And of course, I always offer my help in helping you clean your plate.”

“Ah yes, your famous motto. What was it? ‘Help others by helping yourself’?”

Siebren smiles bashfully, before clearing his throat. “Yes, well…it is the least I can do.”

It’s in moments like these that Harold sees the old Siebren hidden beneath the layers and feels the insurmountable pressure of time. He can only imagine the inevitable dwindling of affection and emotion as the years passed by, imagine the hole in a person’s heart widen to fit another’s love. He can only wonder how Siebren feels now, seeing a phoenix rise from the ashes. A ghost walking on solid ground.

He takes the tray from Siebren’s lap and together they walk over to the common break room, eating the breakfast tray together. From a security camera, Sombra watches in utter silence, waiting to hear the fateful words that will blow the mystery open. Talon wants something from Dr. Harold Winston, and she’ll be damned if they find out before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talon wants something from Dr. Harold Winston. Is it the serum in his body, or is it something else altogether? You're just going to have to find out in the next chapter ;)


	3. Odysseus and Penelope

Chapter 3: Odysseus and Penelope

For a moment it feels like Sigma has finally got some semblance of normality back in his life. He no longer works alone in his laboratory, isolated from his colleagues. Instead he works with Harold, side by side, just like old times. It’s nostalgic how easily they work together, two bodies and minds working in tandem. They work at opposite stations, Harold near the door and Sigma towards the back, but the distance doesn’t feel so large when their voices echo eagerly off the white walls . They talk as they work, and when they talk, they reminisce about the old days. As they reminisce about the past—the long hours, the grueling research and the isolating conditions—the conversations inevitably drift to the history they shared. They’re usually slips of the tongue, about a moment that happened after a kiss, or a place they’ve only ever been to on dates, or a song they listened to when they held one another in their arms.

The conversation always ends the same way. Harold’s easy smile fades away into stardust as a dark miasma fills the gap between their bodies. Times like these, Sigma wishes he can just return to his work like nothing occurred, but he knows it’s anything but. There’s always a flicker in Harold’s eyes, as bright as the Polaris star, and Sigma feels like he is looking into the eye of a black hole, waiting to be sucked in.

An achingly familiar feeling fills his bones, threatening to uproot his perfectly prepared peace. He’s felt it before, over a decade ago up on Horizon One lunar base when he first gazed upon Dr Harold Winston’s visage. Heat creeps up his cheeks, staining them rouge. Butterflies flutter within his stomach. His eyes play tricks on his mind, imagining the golden halo that surrounds Harold’s body, warm and safe like the sun. His eyes widen as the answer stares him at the face.

He has fallen in love with Harold again.

Given the chance, he would bite the bullet and pursue their relationship once more, but he has to remind himself that they are both old men now, and time hasn’t treated either of them kindly. His hair is gone, the wrinkles on his face are more pronounced, and worse of all, his memories are fractured—broken pieces of a mirror that he must reassemble together. He remembers his relationship with Harold, but he cannot be sure if the events that play in his mind truly happened or if they’re the fever dreams of his overactive imagination, eagerly awaiting something that might never happen.

He glances over to where Harold stood, his eyes focusing on a stack of books on the side of his desk. A mixture of textbooks, astrobiology journals, and hardback novels about crime and mystery. Once upon a time, back in Horizon One, Harold used to adore romance novels, gobbling them up with the utmost fervor, from the most tragic of star-crossed lovers to the most heartwarming of soul mates. He used to quote the most romantic lines all the time, first as a tease, and then with legitimate heart. But now those books are gone, and Harold is old and frail, hope fading as the years went by.

It’s less a question about whether Harold returns his affections or not, and more a question of whether Harold still desires romance anymore.

It’s become a ritual for the two of them to get each other some refreshments. They both knew how they liked their caffeine: Sigma has a preference for black tea with a spot of sugar while Harold enjoyed his coffee black. On this particular day, it’s Sigma’s job to get the drinks. He places the mug down on Harold’s desk.

Harold sniffs the air, an animal caught on a scent. His eyes glance at the coffee mug, then up to Sigma’s face. He smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

Sigma glances at the words on Harold’s tablet. He’s not sure what it was, but it definitely wasn’t a journal article. “Reading another story?” He guesses.

“It’s not erotica this time.”

Sigma blushes. “I wasn’t suggesting _that_.”

“You almost sound disappointed,” Harold smirks.

Sigma is suddenly very glad he didn’t decide to drink his tea right then and there. He coughs loudly into his free hand. “S-so what is it then?”

Harold turns the tablet to face Sigma. “I’m catching up with current affairs. Or rather, what’s been happening in the last decade or so.”

Sigma glances over Harold’s shoulder. A newspaper article displays a lineup of former Overwatch agents. Amongst the men and women was a gorilla, smiling nervously into the camera, wearing a familiar pair of glasses. Sigma could feel Harold suck in a shallow breath through his teeth. He skims at the image description, where the names of the Overwatch agents stood.

The name ‘Winston’ stands out like a sore thumb.

“Specimen 28,” Harold says quietly. “He named himself after me.”

Sigma smiles. “I’m not completely surprised myself. You’ve cared for him as if he was your own son.”

“S-still, to take my name AND my glasses?” He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling nervously. “I guess I left a bigger impression on him than I thought.”

Despite his best attempts to hide it, Harold wears the grin of a proud father. Sigma smiles as an old memory resurfaces. “I remember the last time I saw you two play together. Winston was such a tiny little baby back then, and he was absolutely enamored with you.” Sigma laughs. “You tried to put him back in his room to sleep, and he clung to your leg so tightly. He didn’t want you to go.”

“Oh god, I remember that,” Harold giggles. “You tried to pull him away from me, but then he just grabbed your coat tails. He wouldn’t let either of us go. In the end, we had to tell him a bedtime story before we could leave.”

“He was an intelligent little gorilla, wasn’t he? He already figured out we were sleeping in the same room together.”

“Those were the days,” Harold smiles wistfully.

“They were,” Sigma sighs reminiscently.

While Harold stares off into the distance, Sigma reads the rest of the article. At the end it talks about Overwatch’s fall and disintegration. The location of the other agents are unknown, including Winston’s. He closes the tab before Harold can see it and hands the tablet back. In the process, their hands graze against each other.

It’s just a tiny accident, just the brush of the back of their hands, but a shock of electricity zaps from the contact, familiar in all the right ways. Their eyes widen, their gaze connects, and suddenly the world drift away, leaving only the endless expanse of space around them.

Sigma looks deeply into Harold’s eyes, sees the galaxies form behind dark irises. The tablet disappears into nothingness as their hands touch once again, Harold drawing patterns on Sigma’s palm. He’s trapped, unable to move by the gentle stroke of Harold’s fingertips. He sucks in a breath, gazing down with heavy eyelids, the universe’s love song humming in his chest.

“Siebren,” Harold says slowly. “Have you ever heard of the story of Penelope, wife of Odysseus?”

Sigma’s brows furrow. “I’m a bit familiar with Odysseus, but not Penelope.”

“She waited twenty years for her husband to return. She did not remarry, even when everyone else thought he was dead. She rejected suitor after suitor, choosing to remain loyal to her husband than gain fame and power through a second marriage.” His fingers continue tracing their pattern on Sigma’s skin. "She must have loved him greatly to commit to such a tragic love."

“Why are you telling me this?” Sigma breathes.

Harold doesn’t respond. His eyes drop down to Sigma’s lips and hover there. Sigma’s only partially aware of the world pulling them together, gravity tugging his body forward. A part of him wants to recall the feeling of lips pressed against his skin, sweet nothings whispered into the stars. A part of him wants to hold Harold close and hear only the rhythm of their beating hearts. He approaches slowly, pulling Harold closer, instincts controlling his body. He waits for the black hole to swallow him whole.

There’s the sound of a door opening loudly, and the world crashes back down on his shoulders. The two of them take two quick steps backwards, facing away from each other. An out-of-breath guard runs in. They don't notice the crimson blushes on the two scientists.

“Are you Sigma?” They pant.

“What is it?” He catches a slight tremor in his voice and clears his throat forcefully.

“M-mission. Emergency. You’re needed.”

“A mission?” Sigma frowns.

“A mission?” Harold asks, surprised.

Sigma grimaces deeply, rubbing his temples with his index and middle fingers, skipping over the metal implants that protrude from his skull. “Where?”

They glance between Sigma and Harold. The corner of their lips drop microscopically. “Classified. If you’ll just come with me, then—”

“I’m coming too,” Harold interrupts.

Sigma's eyes widen. “W-what? No, Harold, don’t, this could be dangerous.”

“And you think I can’t handle myself?”

Sigma stares at the tubes and needles that run all over Harold’s body. He suppresses a frown.

“Siebren, I don’t know what you’re doing, but if it’s dangerous, I’m coming along too. I want to help.”

“Harold, this isn’t just anything. I will be going to battle.”

“Battle? Why are you going in battle?”

“I’m needed,” Sigma says. “My powers, I…I can help people. Protect them from danger.”

“And you think I don’t want to protect people too?”

“You’re not fit for this. You’re…” He gestures at Harold’s body.

Harold lowers his gaze to his feet and grits his teeth. When he looks back up at Sigma, flames dance beneath his eyes. He stares for a second before crossing the room, crouching down beside a set of cupboards. He opens one of them, retrieving a strange looking backpack filled with golden liquid. It’s clearly Harold’s work, but Sigma cannot recall him ever working on this. When did he make it?

Harold puts the backpack on his shoulders swiftly. The action is innate, requiring no thought, a reflex.

“You’re not the only old man with inexplicable powers, Siebren.”

Sigma frowns in confusion. “What do you mean?”

But Harold begins to load cannisters into his lab coat without another word. When he’s finished, he gives the guard a severe glare, who only responds with a cold shiver and a shaky salute. They lead the two of them down the halls and to the elevators. A million concerns creep up Sigma’s throat but he swallows them down like the bitter tablets they are. He knows from experience that there is nothing in the world that will stop Harold when he’s determined.

* * *

He’s flying above an unknown desert somewhere in Africa where a small contingent of Talon soldiers lie in wait inside the airship. They need protection storming this base owned by a local crime cartel, and Sigma’s the best person to shield them on their push. Why they’re storming the base is unknown, but Sigma has learned not to ask anymore. His reputation precedes him. No one tells him a thing these days. He's not high enough the military rankings, they say. Sometimes he wonders if they will ever tell him anything for these missions.

He’s fine with using his powers to protect people, but it’s the inevitable pain and death he causes that he hates. He hums a song distractedly, trying to clear his mind of thought and emotion but it’s proving especially hard today. Harold sits beside him, decked out in the typical Talon battle medic uniform. Bits of his uniform is ripped or rolled up to accommodate for his medical equipment, the top half of his face obscured by a helmet. He fiddles with the trigger of his weapon of choice: a modified jet injector filled with a strange gas. It’s only now that Sigma realizes that the cannisters Harold grabbed earlier are ammunition for the jet injector. Harold loads the cannisters into the weapon, his eyes blank, hands running on autopilot. This isn’t the first time he has used it, Sigma realizes.

Harold moves his head towards Sigma and sighs.

“I’m not mad with you, Siebren,” Harold says quietly.

Sigma lets out a breath of relief. For once, he is glad his Talon uniform comes with a helmet that hides his face. “I am sorry I didn’t mention this before. It honestly slipped my mind.”

“So this is a regular occurrence? You going on these death missions for Talon?”

“Sometimes,” Sigma admits. “Talon used to put me on more missions when I first joined, back when I wasn’t so…stable.” He remembers the moments before his mind last fractured apart, the chimes of a piano surrounding his body and mind, the terror that eclipsed his face, a version of him screaming into his ear, _Hold it together, HOLD IT TOGETHER!_

He tries to shakes off the memory but it’s too late. The orbs he summons in his hand are rising and falling with his quickened breath. He tries to dismiss them, hide the tremors in his hand, but Harold is perceptive and observant.

“Are you sure you’re alright for this?” Harold asks, concerned.

“I am needed,” Sigma replies, unconvinced by his own words. “It is a privilege to be of service.”

Harold opens his mouth to speak, but the other soldiers stand up, ready to head out. The airship lands on top of a crumpled, abandoned building, air and dust billowing beneath the vehicle. The base they must attack is a shimmer in the distance, a glittering oasis against the yellow sand and the impenetrable heat. They give each other one last glance before they take their positions, Harold in the back and Sigma at the front. He summons his shield and tries his best not to think too hard about Harold’s safety. He can only hope that this is a quick and easy mission. He hopes he can get back to Talon HQ soon and curl up above the soft cotton sheets of his bed and dream about the olden days.

But that never happens.

Sigma is a tall, imposing figure, and with his barrier up, he practically announces their position—a calculated risk on Talon’s part. As they approach the base, the enemy come out in droves, guns of all makes and sizes pointed at their position. Some jump down from the battlements while others rush from the ground. The soldiers are professionals, used to the songs of gunfire and bloodshed, but it’s one genre that Sigma’s unfamiliar with. He does what he always does in battle and pretends that he is another person that enjoys the death and destruction. A part of him, he knows, but one he refuses to acknowledge.

He holds the barrier in front of him with his left hand, hyperspheres floating above his right hand, primed in case he might have to attack. Bullets of the physical and the energy kind harmlessly ping off the shield. Talon’s weapons are specially designed for his shield, the bullets of his comrades passing through with ease. The wails of lives cut short echo throughout the desert wind.

As they approach the gates of the base, the crime cartel has prepared their weapons. Heavy artillery wails down upon them, breaking the shield into smithereens. He stretches his hand out, feels the whispers of the universe thread through his body, and absorbs the incoming onslaught, buying enough time for the soldiers to hide behind a broken truck. He tries to float to safety, but a stray bullet cracks his visor, grazing his cheek.

Sigma breathes heavily, forgetting his persona in an instant. Notes and equations float through his head, trying to steady his mind and body. He forgets about the blood oozing from his cheek. The soldier next to him gestures at the gates. Sigma takes a few deep breathes and nods. He’s done this so many times. Surely he can do it again.

They all jump out of their cover at once and rush to the gates, Sigma pushing the barrier forward. Enemies from watchtowers aim at them but are suddenly sniped from afar. The place is built like a fortress, guns aimed from above. Sigma pushes the shield above their heads, giving them time to take a few more lives and force the gates open. No one expects them to be able to get in this fast. Anyone in sight is shot dead with deadly precision. Within minutes, the area is devoid of all life. 

Sigma looks at the crumple body of the enemy. An older model omnic decked out in combat gear, heavily modified for military use. A pitiful fate, he thinks, undeserving of anyone, human or omnic or gorilla.

One of the soldiers jogs up beside Sigma—the commander, he guesses, but it’s impossible to tell. He makes a hand signal at the rest of the team. “Everybody, split up and search.”

The rest of the soldiers go off on their own, grouping up into teams of two or three. Harold and Sigma stay behind, unsure what to do. The commander is shorter than Harold even, but their body is built strongly. Sigma can imagine the snarl behind their mask.

“Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“What are we looking for anyway?” Harold asks.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” they respond cryptically.

Sigma stares at the grounds with a blank stare. Blood drips from the fresh wound on his cheek. The universe sings to him a crazed, frantic song in prestissimo time. His voices collide into one another, tone high and fearful. _Release me, release me. _

The words escape his throat before he can stop himself. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he mutters.

“Siebren?” 

The voices in his head are screaming now. A metronome clicks insistently. The universe wails loudly in pain. He grips his head, blocking his ears, but it doesn’t stop. There’s shouting now too, from Harold and the other soldiers, but they’re all so distant and far away. The sun is a jackhammer, the wind is a klaxon alarm, the sand beneath his feet is a nail running down a chalkboard. What is this dreadful feeling? Why does he feel this way?

Suddenly all the noises stops, except for one. The metronome still clicks. He whips his head to the source. A clicking noise emits from one of the dead omnics, constant and even. And then from several of the omnic soldiers. And then all the dead bodies. Sigma floats higher, his eyes wide and afraid, his body stock still. He cannot move. He cannot bring the shield up. 

Then the clicking stops. It lasts for 0.3 seconds, after which it’s followed by the concussive blast of a hundred different explosions going off simultaneously, engulfing all within its boundaries. No one reacts fast enough to scream.

The silence that comes after is the quietest Sigma’s ever heard in his life. In another context, it might be a welcome change. Here and now, it’s deafening.

He stands—not floats—on solid ground, surrounded by charred bodies. Plastic melts into his undersuit, flames dancing all over his body and he wonders if maybe he has finally bit the proverbial dust. No voices assault his senses anymore. No song calls him to the beyond. All he hears is his haggard breathing and his racing heart, harsh and loud and abrasive, but they are signs that he is alive. For the first time in a long while, his mind is whole once more. He glances at his hands and stares.

A surreal golden glow encases his body, cold and hot at the same time. Flames flicker a few centimetres off his arm but he doesn’t feel it at all. Even as he puts his hands through it, light moving with his body, the fire just diverts away like magnets of the same polarity. He glances at the commander who was by his side, once a living being, now a pile of ash held together by their armour. Spread across the perimeter, other Talon soldiers lie in similar gruesome states.

The light saved him, Sigma realizes slowly. But how? Where did it come from?

A groan can be heard behind him, and then a heavy thud. Sigma turns around and finds Harold on his hands and knees, alive but coughing loudly, covered in the same light that surrounds Sigma’s being. His skin is unnaturally pale and thin like a skeleton, his uniform in complete tatters. Purple liquid spills from his lips, turning grey as it falls down onto sand and ash. His left hand is raised, a beam of pure light connecting their halos, but it doesn’t stay raised long. He drops his hand and the light fades from their bodies. 

Harold is about to collapse face first onto the ground, but Sigma is quick to catch him. Harold lies limply in his arms, eyes closed. A faint smile escapes his lips, and then a cough. Sigma has control over his powers again, letting Harold hover up in the air just above his elbows. His hands gingerly extracts the helmet over Harold’s face. Sunken eyes stain his visage, dark blood vessels creeping up purple skin.

Harold’s eyelids flutter open. A weak smile graces his features. “You caught me again, hero,” he coughs.

Sigma smiles despite himself, tears stinging in his eyes. “You were the one to catch me this time. You're the hero."

Within seconds, Harold loses consciousness. Sigma lowers his body down so he can carry him in his arms and walks away from the ruins of the destroyed base, without so much as a glance behind.

* * *

Sigma is restless, tense, and unnaturally quiet. He doesn’t leave Harold’s bedside unless he needs to, which isn’t all that often. Harold’s bedroom comes equipped with an ensuite bathroom, and if he needs to eat, the breakroom is a short journey there and back—not that he has the stomach to eat much. He sleeps in Harold’s armchair at night and pretends he’s being hugged to sleep. Whether it’s the chair or the new setting or the unbearable tension clawing up his lungs, he doesn’t sleep well, dreams eluding him.

It’s not that Harold is unwell. Far from it, in fact. His armour had literally melted into his skin, the plastic and metal had to be surgically removed. Talon expects a recovery time of months, maybe even a year considering his advanced age. He should be scarred for life, possibly requiring an aid to help him move. Instead, the very next day, new flesh heals over, bright and young and firm. They’ve kept him comatose ever since. Sigma doesn’t think it’s right, but he’s not an MD. He doesn’t have the medical expertise to know what’s right or wrong. He just has to leave it to the professionals and wait for the results.

He’s not sure what day it is when Dr. Irvin Laszlo arrives. He frowns once he sees Sigma, bristling microscopically beneath his white doctor's coat. Sigma's pestered the doctor for days, asking about Harold's condition. He knows he’s a nuisance, and he knows he risks exposing his affections, but he’d rather have answers. Judging by the heavy folder in Irvin’s grasp, he might finally get it.

“Sit down, Sigma,” he orders.

He huffs but does as he’s told. Irvin strides to him, face carefully blank. He opens the folder and flips through the pages, extracting a single image. He hands it for Sigma to see. It’s an enlarged picture of a blood smear, Harold's full name and basic details printed on the top corner. Sigma doesn’t need to be a doctor to notice that there’s something different about this blood smear. Amidst the circular red blood cells and tiny platelets, a dark, angular looking thing lies nestled in between. There's a few of them, some floating freely, and one holding tightly onto a red blood cell.

“These are nanobots,” Irvin says. “Not the normal kind you see floating in people’s bodies. These things are something else, much bigger than normal. Almost as if they’re made for someone else.” His eyes narrow as he steals the image away from Sigma’s hands. “He didn’t happen to tell you about this, did he?”

“No,” Sigma says, a partial lie. He has his own theories as to what the nanobots are. He’s seen something similar back when he was working with Harold up in Horizon One decades ago. He thought the technology was lost with the apes forever.

“Well, whatever it is, they’re not normal. They linger in his tissues for longer than anything commercially available now. They only stop working if the cell itself is undergoing apoptosis. And their numbers. There’s too many to be sustainable for a non-replicating entity, unless it does replicate somehow. But the RBC and WBC count is low and it wasn't just in his blood...” Irvin shakes his head.

Sigma frowns. “What do you mean?”

Irvin’s lips thin. “These nanobots are replacing his cells. They’re almost like stemcells, changing itself based on the host's needs. That’s why he’s healing way faster than he should. That's why his skin can grow back in a day with no ill side effects." He glances down at his folder, the easiest way to avoid eye contact. “He’s practically biotic.”

He waits for a response but Sigma doesn’t give him one. He stares at Harold’s body, surrounded by tubes and wires, a shadow of his former self. He cannot stop the quiver in his voice. “B-but he will be alright…won’t he?”

“For now. If the nanobots are self-replicating, then he should be fine. But if they’re not…” the implication is left unsaid.

Sigma sighs quietly. "Please tell me he will wake up soon. I cannot bear the thought of him being held prisoner like this." He knows what it's like to be forcibly kept in a state like this. He knows exactly how painful it can really be.

“We will take him off the medications tonight," Irvin reassures. "He should wake up sometime tomorrow.”

Sigma nods with careful fragility. Dr Laszlo does a quick checkup on Harold before leaving the room. When he's sure he's gone, Sigma slowly lifts himself off the armchair and hovers over to Harold’s sleeping body. Despite all the machines at his side, Harold looks serene, a doleful Sleeping Beauty waiting for a prince’s kiss to wake them up. 

He’s not sure he’s a prince, and he’s certain Harold isn’t Sleeping Beauty, but he takes Harold’s hand in his and caresses it softly, mapping the Milky Way with his fingertips. Gravity pulls his lips to Harold and for once, he doesn't fight it, a slave to the world. He leans forward, eyes closed as he presses a gentle kiss to Harold’s cheek.

For a second, Harold’s lips curl upward before returning back to his neutral, sleeping expression. Sigma is not sure if it’s wishful thinking, his overactive imagination, or something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, I get to flex my secret medical knowledge in this chapter. On the other hand, I may or may not have accidentally become Mercy, except like...not blonde. And not swiss.   
Still do appreciate swiss chocolates though.


	4. One day, three autumns

Chapter 4: One day, three autumns

It’s hard for Harold to convince everybody that he’s fine when all known logic dictates that he shouldn’t. Given the extent of his injuries, he should be bandaged from head to toe at the very least, unable to walk or move. Yet he runs and smiles without so much as a hair out of place, no scar or wound to be seen. The biting stares once reserved for Siebren are now given to him as well. They glare at him like he is a ticking time bomb, or an omnipotent god walking amongst mortals. A freak of nature. If only they knew he would never put anyone in harm’s way. If anything, he puts himself in danger by using his abilities so brazenly.

If someone were to ask him if he regrets his decision to save Siebren, the answer would be a resounding no. He is used to sacrificing himself for others. 

He goes by his day, trying his best to get used to the eyes constantly pressed on his back. Siebren does his best to make him feel comfortable, and he appreciates the gesture, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that they’re searching him for something, stripping him down to the molecule until they find the answers they are looking for.

At least Siebren is by his side, laughing and smiling easily, grazing light touches over his skin like time doesn’t exist. Harold grins warmly as he looks up into his ocean blue eyes and feels years and years of affection well up to the surface, waiting to spill out of his lips.

_One day, three autumns, _his mother told him when he was young, obsessed with idioms of her homeland as he was obsessed with books. His father had flown off to America again, leaving him and his sister to stay with his mother’s family in Lijiang. She’s proud in that typical Asian tiger mom way, but beneath the surface, she missed her husband greatly.

_Yí rì s__ān qiū_, she repeated in her native Mandarin. _When you miss that special someone greatly, you say this. When they go away, one day feels like the passing of three autumns. You stare out the window because every single second they are gone is too long. You cling to their memory, hold it close to your heart, and eagerly wait for their return. _She clasped him on the shoulder and said, _Do you miss your papa?_

That was her word for his father, ‘papa’. She was mama, and he was papa—a compromise between her Chinese culture and his father’s American culture. He nodded eagerly, as all young boys did. _I miss papa_.

She smiled with grave melancholy. _Yí rì s__ān qiū_, she said. _I miss him too._

If one day is three autumns, he cannot imagine how many eternities have passed since he lost Siebren all those years ago.

After Harold woke up from his coma, Siebren doted on his every whim and need, following him around everywhere. He makes Harold breakfast in the morning and reaches for the mugs in the high cupboard. It's all rather unnecessary but Siebren does it anyway. “You can never be too careful,” the astrophysicist tells Harold, the astrobiologist with an expert understanding of gorilla and human physiology. “I don’t mind helping you. It’s the least I owe you for saving my life.”

In the past, perhaps Harold might have told Siebren that he can handle himself quite fine, but present Harold is smarter and wiser and he also has the added knowledge that Siebren is an adept masseuse with strong fingers. A few stray thoughts of how Harold came to know this filtered into his brain and drew the heat up to his cheeks. He thinks he sees Siebren make a similar reaction when he makes the request for a massage, back when they’re alone in his bedroom, but it’s lightning fast, too quick for him to catch. Siebren quickly rounds up behind him and presses his fingers firmly into Harold’s wound flesh.

Even after all these years, Siebren’s touch is familiar. Comforting. Delicate.

Maybe he likes to get pampered, Harold convinces himself as Siebren undoes a knot in his back, drawing out a soft groan. Maybe he likes how easily he unravels by Siebren’s touch, transforming all the stress and guilt that rests on his shoulders into radiant heat. Maybe he likes the feel of hands on his body, the touches forbidden to him for so long, lighting a long dormant fire in the pit of his stomach. 

After a few minutes, Siebren speaks, curiously out of breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“And you’re not?” Harold smiles knowingly over his shoulder.

Siebren clears his throat loudly behind his back. Harold smiles mischievously.

“I’m an old man now, Siebren. I can enjoy a massage every now and then.”

“Yes, well at our age, I think we’re entitled to it,” Siebren chuckles. “Not that I would ever force someone to massage me.”

“Why not? I basically made you do it now.”

“It’s different when it’s you,” Siebren admits quietly.

Harold’s eyes widen. There’s a spark in Siebren’s voice, a breathy quality Harold catches that conjures memories of silken sheets and soft pillows and warm skin, all made more potent on the dark expanse of the moon. Harold keeps his gaze forward, a dark blush betraying his otherwise neutral expression.

Siebren uses the silence to concentrate further on the massage. His fingers tap out rhythmically on Harold’s skin, a piano tune playing on pliable skin. Siebren begins to hum under his breath, a ragtag jumble of discordant notes that make no sense on their own but nevertheless sounds beautiful from his lips. It’s strange yet haunting and very very Siebren.

“What song is that one?” Harold asks quietly.

Siebren stops humming altogether. He coughs loudly. “N-nothing.”

“I’ve heard you hum that one before,” Harold comments. “New song or new formula?”

Siebren goes unnaturally quiet as his hands retreat from Harold’s shoulders. Harold turns towards him only to find Siebren staring at the dust molecules in front of his face. His lips are pursed tight. He’s floating higher, eyes wide and haunted.

Harold cups Siebren’s face, steadying him as he floats down to the ground. He sees the clarity dawn slowly upon Siebren like the birth of a sunrise, gravity shackling him once more to Earth. The expression Siebren gives him is not a familiar one. His face speaks of ghosts, nightmares, and sleepless nights.

“Harold…do you trust me?” He asks slowly.

“Of course I do.” Harold doesn’t even hesitate. “Tell me.”

Siebren gazes deeply into Harold’s eyes for any signs of doubt but finds nothing but warm and summery emotions, kept tempered and dormant by the forces of Harold’s willpower. With a final nod, he summons the hyperspheres.

They float idly around his right hand, spinning in circles before fusing into one being. The dark matter within has coalesced into a bigger sphere, the components that hold them together crumbling away like dust in the wind. Harold stares into the void, sees time and space fold into itself.

Harold frowns. “What am I looking at?”

“Sshhh,” Sigma hushes. He brings it closer to Harold’s ears.

It’s only then that he hears the music, a violent clash of thudding pianos and dark whispers and Shepard tones constantly rising to the heavens.

“What…what is this?” He gasps.

“The universe’s melody,” Siebren replies. He stares at the orb, watching it hover above his hand. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

It is, Harold admits to himself, but not as magnificent as Siebren right now, vulnerable and gorgeous at the same time, familiar and unfamiliar in every right way. “Is this what you hear all the time?” he asks.

Siebren nods. “This was all I heard after the accident. For years I thought it was the universe taunting me, enslaving me to be servant to its whims. Alone in my own mind, I was trapped, fighting for release. And then one day I saw it. The bridge between time and space, a wormhole tearing the fabric of reality apart wide enough that I may glimpse through. And there I saw infinite realities, infinite versions of myself warped and changed through the efforts of infinite realities. But it was only for a second. And it never happened again.”

Harold stares at the dark orb in front of him, his breath disappearing into the mist. Slowly, shakily, he raises his fingers to touch it. Pain spikes when he touches it, fading away rapidly when he retreats his hand.

The orb harmlessly floats from his hand into Harold’s. Siebren tilts his head to the side, eyes wide in rapturous adoration. “So you see what I have to do, right? If I can just figure out this melody, if I can just find the formula, I might be able to prove the existence of multiple realities. I could see far into the past and future, and glimpse at the beauty the universe hides from us. I could learn so much more.”

It’s times like this that Harold wishes he shares Siebren’s passion for the mysteries of the universe, but their ultimate goals always differed. Siebren searches for the unknown far off into the galaxy, while Harold searches for the hidden potential lying dormant within all living creatures. Siebren sees the beauty in everything that he can’t see and touch, but Harold sees the beauty in the present, the sunlight in an excited grin, the dazzling stars behind sky blue eyes, the supernovas that explode from a gentle caress. 

It takes Siebren a moment before he catches himself. He hides his shy smile behind a closed fist. The orb dissipates into thin air. “I-I know this sounds like I’m insane. I know my mind is no longer whole, but I just know the answer lies here somewhere.” He stares forlornly at Harold. “I understand if you don’t believe me. It sounds ridiculous.”

Harold smiles as he places a hand on Siebren’s shoulder. “Of course it sounds ridiculous," he says before chuckling. "But then again, people thought Copernicus was ridiculous when he said the Earth revolved around the sun back in the day.”

“So you believe me?” Siebren asks, hopeful.

“If you believe it, I believe it,” Harold says. He squeezes Siebren's shoulder lightly. “I trust you.”

Siebren takes Harold’s hands into his own, gazing down with childlike eyes. Harold can feel the gentle hum of power within Sigma’s palm, waves pushing and pulling at invisible strings. He doesn’t pull back when Siebren places a quick kiss on his cheek. The patch of skin where his lips left their mark fizzled pleasantly with electricity.

“I needed to hear that,” Sigma admits with a whisper. “_Bedankt_, Harold.”

Harold blushes as he glances down at their entwined hands. He wants more—tender kisses, small touches, soft words—but he doesn’t have the courage to ask for more. He sees the way Siebren brightens in his presence, the joy and relief of knowing a long-lost love has been resurrected. He doesn’t have the courage to commit and break Siebren’s heart again when he returns to the grave, even if it means he must deny himself his own selfish wants.

He is used to sacrificing himself for others. It’s familiar. Normal.

“Come on, tough guy,” Harold smiles. “I think I owe you a massage after all that.”

Siebren protests loudly, but it falls upon flat ears. He isn’t going to get away that easily, Harold smiles to himself.

* * *

Moira catches him when Siebren is away on a training exercise. An additional check-up, she claims, though Harold is quick to narrow his eyes. It’s been more than a week since that fateful mission, and she only approaches him now when Siebren must temporarily leave his side. The timing is almost a bit too convenient.

He’s not usually a cautious person, but Moira rubs him in all the wrong ways. There’s a coldness in her stare that speaks of cold clinical data and complete detachment. Years ago, he wouldn’t have thought anything about it because he intrinsically trusted people to be benevolent and kind. A lifetime’s worth of betrayals have finally taught him otherwise. Not a day goes by when he wishes to see the world in rose-tinted glasses once more.

“All my medical tests have been up to date,” he says slowly. “My last checkup was two days ago.”

“Ah, yes, but this is a psychiatric examination,” Moira says. “You have been through a rather unfortunate accident. It is standard practice here in Talon to perform psychiatric examinations of all our personnel after any traumatic event.”

“Siebren hasn’t had an examination,” Harold points out.

“He shall have one after you. Now, if you will please join me?”

He’s got no choice but to follow. The choice she gives is an illusion, he thinks morosely.

She doesn’t take him to the medical bay where Dr. Irvin Laszlo’s office is. She doesn’t take him to her own office next door, pristine and professional apart from a few anime figurines on her shelf. Instead, she leads him down to the lower levels, past keycard-encrypted doors to a single, dark room.

It smells of decay and disuse, bringing back memories of Horizon One and the torturous loneliness he felt at Horizon Two afterwards. There are no windows, the only light coming from LED lamps above. The only items in the room are three plastic chairs, two facing the third, which stands beneath the spotlight. Moira takes her seat on the first. The second is occupied by a man he’s never seen before with sandy skin and a short spiky haircut similar to Harold’s own. She gestures for him to sit in the third, already scribbling notes on a clipboard with her other hand.

He glances into the shadows and thinks he spies a pair of eyes gazing upon him, but Moira clicks her fingers impatiently at him. The mysterious man presses a button on an old tape player. It’s analogue. Antique. Untraceable.

“This is the psychological examination of Subject: 31,” the mysterious man speaks with a British accent. Tones of his native Indian can be faintly heard. “We are here to examine his mental wellbeing after the failed mission at Cape Town.”

Moira steeples her fingers. “Tell me, if it’s not too much for you, what happened that day?”

There’s something wrong about all this, but he’s not sure what. Is it the stranger, Moira, or that insufferably dehumanizing nickname? He suppresses a frown and wills himself to sound calm. “I was on the mission with Siebren. The men in our contingent had killed all the poor omnic soldiers.”

“You feel sympathy for them?” She asks.

“Well, they are people, even if they’re not necessarily living.” His lips pull tight as he remembers the explosion. “Even if they are criminals, they didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Moira makes a note, scowling to herself. The stranger perks up. “So what happened after?”

Harold frowns. “I would think that’s common knowledge. The omnics all suddenly blew up after a countdown. If Siebren didn’t react fast enough and shielded the both of us, I would’ve probably perished with the rest of the team.”

He hopes his lie goes through undetected but the stranger glares with the intensity of a solar flare. “Surely that wasn’t all that happened, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, thinking about it logically, the omnic corpses were found scattered all over the base, meaning you would have been engulfed by flames on all sides. And even if you happened to be in an area where it can be easily blocked in one direction, that doesn’t explain how you got all burned up and Sigma escapes without a scratch.”

“I can’t answer that,” Harold lies. “I’ve never been in combat before. I was disorientated to say the least.”

“So why did you offer to go anyway? Talon gave you no combat experience. You had no reason to go.”

Harold bristles. “Siebren could have been in danger.”

“So could you.”

“Rather me than him.” Harold feels his face go flush with worry. He lowers his head. “Or anybody else for that matter," he quickly adds. "I know I’m living on borrowed time. I might as well give that time to someone who needs it.”

The stranger leans back in his chair, his posture casual but his eyes firm. Moira scribbles something. “We have reason to suspect Subject: 31 has been involved with Sigma in the past, Sanjay,” she tells him.

The stranger known as Sanjay smiles, as fake and plastic as the chair he sits upon. “So that’s what it is.” He turns to Harold. “Is this true?”

The realization dawns upon him far too late. He stands up from his seat, eyes wide. “This isn’t a psychological examination, this is an interrogation!”

“Sit down, please,” he orders.

In the darkness, a shadowy figure is disturbed from their place by the wall. The dark shine of a pair of shotguns stares back at Harold, crossed menacingly over the figure’s chest. In the back of his mind, Harold recognizes something about this person, but he doesn’t want to test his luck. He lets out a breath and slowly sits down, keeping his gaze firmly on Sanjay.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“It’s fine,” Harold sighs. He glances at the section of the wall where the dark figure once stood, now gone without a trace, a dark whisper in the wind. He turns his head to Sanjay, his eyes still fixated on the wall. “…A long time ago, before the incident at Horizon One, we were…in a relationship.”

“Could you clarify?” Sanjay asks.

“Do I have to?”

“Only if you want to.”

Harold takes a quiet breath. “A romantic one,” he admits. “But that was only back then. Not anymore.” The words sting far more than any flesh wound.

“But you would say you are still close?”

“I think so. We are friends.”

“And you’re sure Subject Sigma—sorry, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper—” Sanjay says the name like it’s a foul aftertaste, “—you're sure he feels the same?”

His whole life has been built on him being observant and perceptive; he’d be a fool not to notice Siebren’s actions recently. He notices the secret little glances when Siebren thinks he’s not looking. He notices the soft smiles, sweet words desperate to escape a warbling throat. He notices the tender affection in Siebren’s touches, full of love and hesitation. He knows Siebren is falling for him again, but he doesn’t do anything about it. A part of him wants to be the one to capture Siebren’s heart all over again.

“I’m sure he does,” Harold says finally. _As something more than friends_, he wordlessly adds.

They ask him a few more basic questions about his stay, but everyone knows they won’t get anything out of him. He’s given a short debriefing, which is essentially an official reprimand for illegally accompanying Siebren on the mission. Fortunately, Moira has mercifully handwaved the incident away, not that Harold feels very fortunate. He really doesn’t want to owe anything to her.

He slowly stands up from his seat and is escorted out by Sanjay. In the middle of the hallway Siebren leans besides a wall, wearing a blue and black bodysuit that clings to his form. It’s athletic gear, Harold’s mind explains, even as his eyes inevitably trail downward. The bodysuit leaves very little to the imagination. It takes all of Harold’s willpower to keep his gaze level on Siebren’s face. 

“Did it go well, Harold?” Siebren asks expectantly.

He wants to say something, but Sanjay is next to him, and the door is still open behind him. Moira waits within the room, pen primed in her hand. Harold forces a smile. “Nothing special,” he lies. “Just a standard psych examination.”

Siebren smiles, none the wiser. “Good to hear. I’ll see you for dinner after, correct?”

Harold smiles back, faltering when he feels Sanjay’s presence beside him. He turned to him. “Could I have a word alone with Siebren? Just for a second.”

Sanjay gives a look to Moira, who only tilts her head. He nods slowly. “Take your time,” he says, before returning to the room, closing the door behind himself.

Siebren frowns when he sees the stern expression on Harold’s face. “What happened?”

“Don’t…” Harold pauses, before adding, in a whisper, “don’t tell them how I saved you on the mission. Just say you put your barrier out. I did nothing.”

“Harold, you want me to lie?”

“Please, trust me,” he pleads.

Siebren’s eyes search Harold’s, for what he doesn’t know. Answers, Harold guesses. Clarification, Harold hopes. Whatever Siebren sees, it’s enough to make him frown. “If you say so,” he whispers, patting Harold once on the shoulder before opening the door. He takes a step forward, pauses in the doorway, and looks over his shoulder. “Take care, Harold."

Harold lets out a breath he doesn’t even realise he’s holding, brushes his hands on his clothes, and heads for the elevator. He presses a button on the wall, waits for the door to close. His heart pumps wildly in his chest, not in excitement or love but in fear. Thinking back on the previous few minutes during the interview fills him with a deep feeling of dread, but even he could not point out what made him feel this way. 

* * *

Harold waits patiently in his bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring into his worn and wrinkled hands. He pulls the sleeve higher, gazing at the veins and arteries that runs down his arm. He flexes his arm, squeezes his fist tight, and watches as his blood vessels begin to glow. He stretches his hand out wide, shaking with effort, the glow dripping up his palm to his fingertips. He tries to maintain the light but the cold chill crawls under his skin as fatigue sets in. After three seconds, his arm drops limply to his side. He props his left arm up with the right and tries again and again to maintain it. With every attempt, his flesh loses a bit more colour. After the tenth attempt, he's forced to stop.

He asked Siebren to meet him here after dinner—to talk, he said. To tell the truth of his abilities and give some clarity for what happened that day, Harold wanted to say, but he feels the eyes on his back with every step he takes. It has to be here, where privacy is as assured as it can be. 

Maybe while he’s at it, he can tell Siebren that he knows how he feels about him. That he feels the same way. That maybe they can start their romance anew.

The time that they agreed upon came and went, and Siebren was nowhere to be seen. The clock ticks on and Harold can’t help but wonder what happened. Siebren is usually a punctual person, and always leaves a message of his whereabouts on the few occasions he is late. Impatient concern grew in his lungs. His mother’s words flutter in his mind. _Yí rì s__ān qiū_, she whispers to the wind. _One day without him feels like three autumns. You miss him._

_I love him_, his own voice corrected. He’s surprised by the conviction in the tone, like it's an assured fact. A universal truth.

Half an hour later, the door slides open. Harold sits up expectantly, his heart leaping out of his chest. Siebren’s smile is soft and full of relief and breathtaking. Harold is ready to hold Siebren tight and kiss him fully on the lips, but he falters when the door opens fully to reveal the forms of Moira and Sanjay.

“Subject—Dr. Winston,” Moira corrects, “we’ve been looking at your scientific work, and after some discussion, I think we can offer you a full position in one of our sister organisations.”

Sanjay pulls a piece of paper from a folder and hands it for Harold to read. It’s a pamphlet for a shining metropolis. Young adults frolic about, carrying books and computers as they sit in the shade of a tree or walk by the many stone paths. They smile widely to the camera, the rest of their faces hidden behind intricate golden masks. The writing is all in Arabic, but he recognizes it to be a university. 

“The Ministries of Oasis have been looking for new scientists to join its legion. After seeing the research you two have been producing here both in the present and the past, I think you both shall be a good fit.”

“Both?” Harold asks.

Siebren smiles. “There is a position open for me at the Ministry of Physics. Who knew that Dr. O’Deorain is the Minister of Genetics for Oasis? How funny the world can be sometimes,” He chuckled. “I must say, I’ve always wanted to visit. And it certainly beats being holed up here, does it not?”

Harold cannot respond. Sanjay is staring at him intently with the kind of withering gaze that unravels weak men. He turns his head to Moira, forcing a polite smile on his face. “I'm afraid you have a misconception about my career. Though I also have a background in physics, my specialization is in biology and animal science.”

“The Ministry of Biology is also looking for new recruits. I believe you will work quite well there,” Moira states. “Of course, these positions I’m offering are not for free. You will have to compete with other scientists with equal pedigrees for these positions. It is highly competitive. I can give my recommendations to help you out, but the rest is up to your skills and intellect, and of course how well you do the interviews. But I can safely say you have a very good chance of getting in should you take this opportunity.”

“It sounds too good to be true, doesn't it?” Siebren smiles.

Harold cannot smile back. In the past he would leap at the opportunity, but he’s not blind to the world anymore. He sees the glimmer in Moira’s eyes, the tight jaw on Sanjay’s face, and knows they see something he doesn’t. They see the bigger picture, the grand scheme of things. Him and Siebren, they are just cogs in a machine, chess pieces in a game.

Every bit of self-preservation tells him to refuse but one glance at Siebren quells their reservations. If this really is danger, he won’t let Siebren go alone. He will protect Siebren however best he can, even if it means going into the belly of the beast. He’s spent a lifetime away from Siebren, and he can’t bear to be apart from him. Not again.

“A wonderful opportunity,” Harold says blankly. He turns to Moira. “Do I need to prepare anything for the trip?”

Moira smiles genuinely for once, her eyes crinkled with what appears to be amusement. 

It's not long before Moira and Sanjay finally leave. As soon as they’re gone, Harold shuts the door behind Siebren. He opens his mouth to say something, but Harold approaches him swiftly and holds him in a crushing hug. He feels Siebren stiffen for a few seconds before relaxing. Harold feels a hand trails tenderly over his upper back, mapping stars and constellations. His eyes flutter from the sensation.

“What’s with you, Harold?” Siebren asks, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Harold doesn’t respond. He just clutches tighter, burying his face into Siebren’s shoulder, inhaling that deep scent of sugar and pine nuts that clings onto Siebren’s clothes. As Siebren chuckles quietly, a ditty hummed under his breath, all Harold can think of is the strength of the arms holding him, safe and strong and warm.

Just this once he’ll be selfish, he tells himself, as he nuzzles into the junction between Siebren’s neck and shoulder and feels a lifetime of autumns shed their leaves beneath his feet.


	5. The eyes of the beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey guys, I'm opening up writing commissions, so if you want me to write a fic for you, or have any questions, contact me on twitter [@alphawave13 ](https://twitter.com/Alphawave13)or on tumblr [@alphawave-writes](alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/). 3 slots are currently open! I always upload spicy memes and sneak peeks there, so check them out!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ For the keen observers, Sigma is wearing the 'Prophet' skin, which BTW is tied for best Sigma skin with 'Subject Sigma'. Every day I write this fic, the more I'm convinced Harold Winston has to be alive. Let him be the support hero of my dreams, and also be husband's with Sigma. Is that too much to ask, Jeff Kaplan from the Overwatch team? Is that too much to ask? _

Chapter 5: The eyes of the beholder

Oasis is beautiful. That’s the first thing that filters into Sigma’s mind when he touches down into the city. It touts itself as a city of science, and it can clearly be seen in the elegance of its architecture and the studious intelligence of its people. The streets are clean and orderly, without a speck of dirt and dust. There’s a healthy mix of urban skyscrapers and charming gardens, highlighted by the crystal clear river that runs through the city’s centre. Skyscrapers shoot for the stars, desperate to be one with the stratosphere. It truly is a beautiful city. It might even beat _Den Haag_ as the most beautiful city he's ever seen.

Sigma is dressed a little bit out of his comfort zone, decked out in the blues and whites and golds that is typical of the Oasis garbs. An intricate white bodysuit surrounds his figure, hugging his body tightly. Lines of soft blue cloth run their course over his body, accentuated by a blue and gold vest. It’s all a bit extravagant in his opinion, but he needs to make a good impression if he wishes to get the Oasis position. Following the city’s dress code is a good start. At least the dress code doesn't require him to wear shoes.

“These clothes really don’t fit me,” Harold mumbles beside Sigma, tugging at his collar.

Like Sigma, Harold had also decided a good first impression was important and reluctantly put on the outfit set out for him. It’s the same colour scheme as Sigma’s own outfit, and just as formfitting. A golden jacket is placed over white leggings, glowing blue lines running downward, highlighting every delicate part of Harold’s physique. Neon blue glasses are placed over his face, making his dark eyes sparkle with electricity. Bangles hover over his wrists and ankles, an exotic touch that makes his hands look stronger and softer somehow, like he could hold the world in his hands and caress it with loving touches and soft whispers.

Harold notices his stares and tilts his head to one side. “Tell me honestly, Siebren, do I look weird?”

He looks gorgeous, Sigma thinks. Perhaps too gorgeous. He clears his throat in a futile effort to hide his blushing cheeks. “Y-you look fine.”

Harold smiles. “Sounds like you think I look better than _fine_.”

“It’s not my fault I’ve never seen you in clothes that weren’t covered in moth balls,” Sigma pouts.

“This is coming from the man who doesn’t wear shoes.”

Sigma gasps in mock offense. He almost expects Moira to cut in with a cutting remark but instead she’s conversing with Sanjay Korpal, her attention completely unwavering. The subject of their conversation is beyond him, involving numerous names that Sigma’s never heard of before. The name that pops up the most is Vishkar.

The dark whispers rumble disconcertedly in his mind and Sigma suppresses a grimace. Despite the failed mission, his mind had been rather clear for these last couple of weeks and he hoped against all hopes that this was a sign of recovery. But then, only a few hours ago when he boarded the airship, the black hole sang its worrisome melodies. **Danger **it sings to him, but what kind of danger he does not know. He’s yet to master the universe’s language.

He only wishes that it’s just the result of his overactive imagination, that his mind is playing tricks on his mind, but one glance at Harold’s concerned expression fills him with worry. He’s not the only one who thinks something’s wrong, and that terrifies him.

**Danger, release me, danger.**

“Hold it together,” he grumbles to himself, too quiet for anyone to hear.

From the landing zone, they take the elevator down to the ground floor and walk outside onto the streets. At this time of day it’s bustling, people of all creeds and cultures going about their day, masks obscuring their eyes. If anyone is disconcerted by Sigma's floating, no one says anything, jostling and bumping into him like he is any other bystander on the street. The three men struggle to keep up with Moira, who parts the crowd with a wave of her hand like she is the second coming of Moses. A few people even bow to her. While Sanjay does his best to keep up, Harold sidles up to Sigma. They maintain a respectful distance away.

“You said she’s the Minister of Genetics?” Harold whispers. “Is that a fancy title here or…?”

“Oh, I forgot. You wouldn’t know about Oasis.” Sigma frowns, calculating the best possible way to explain the concept. “Are you familiar with the Ministries?”

Harold’s eyebrows furrow. “Sounds familiar. It was this collective of scientists, right?”

“Correct. They made this city a long time ago, a short while after your…” Sigma clears his throat loudly. “L-long story short, they are still around today, and govern this city. If I recall, there are 6 ministries, each for a different field of science. To be a minister for any one of them is a great honour—or at least, so they claim.”

“I suppose you’d fit right in, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a good opportunity, sure, but that is the only reason I am here.” He looks at an advertisement for the Ministries' newest initiative and frowns. "They offered me a position here once before, but I refused. We had different goals. Thus, I remained in _Den Haag_."

“You’re not a fan of the university?”

“They’re just scientists,” Sigma spits the word ‘scientist’ out like it’s a cyanide pill. “To split up all of science into six crude fields, they must not be able to see the intrinsic interconnectedness between disciplines. I mean, your research into the effects of space colonization on apes embodies many distinct fields. You’re probably qualified for three of the different ministries here. And that’s the problem with a society of scientists, they don’t see beyond their narrow points of views. All they care about is themselves, and their own research.”

Harold’s lips thin. “But we’re scientists, Siebren.”

“But we know our place in this world is to discover the undiscovered. We see the bigger picture, we see the possibilities unexplored. We’re not like them, foolishly thinking that we make a blip of impact in the microcosm that is the universe.”

Harold goes uncomfortably silent. His eyes stare forward, gaze sharp but hollow. Beyond his irises, within his soul, memories of a decade past play in a continuous loop. A younger Harold fawns over the mysteries of the universe, about the impact his research could have on the world. Eager words spill from his lips like the sweetest honey, his heart on his sleeve.

In the real world, Harold sets his jaw tight. “I see,” he replies emotionlessly.

Sigma’s eyes widen. “H-Harold, you’re not like that—”

“No. You’re right. I didn’t see the bigger picture.” Harold scowls. “I know better now.”

Sigma frowns. “This was not a comment on you at all.”

“I know, Siebren, but…” Harold stops to let out a harsh breath. He turns his head forward to the masked crowds. “I know exactly what narrowminded naivety can do. It killed thousands during the Omnic Crisis. It almost killed me too.” There’s a pregnant pause before Harold shakes his head roughly, ridding his mind of sad memories. “But you’re wrong about one thing, Siebren. One person can make a difference. We are living examples of it.”

Sigma stares at Harold’s eyes, tinted by the blue lens of his glasses. In a moment he thinks he sees warm chocolate irises turn golden, sees the broken blood vessels that stain his neck suddenly glow with ethereal power, warm and safe like the light that saved him that day. But Sigma blinks, and the light is gone, and Harold keeps his gaze forward like nothing happened, a mirage in the desert. But Sigma knows he hadn’t imagined it. That was real. He feels the currents shift in the air, pushing and pulling against the strings of gravity he wields, beating together in perfect harmony.

Sigma opens his mouth to ask, but Moira and Sanjay slow to a stop in front of a massive building—the tallest building in the world, in fact. The tall skyscraper is an indulgent monument to human ingenuity, a glistening tower of Babel that pierces the clouds and grins at its own hedonistic brilliance. In front of the construction site is a lithe young woman with dark skin and even darker hair. Her right hand taps rhythmically into her left bicep which, Sigma realizes, is completely prosthetic.

“You’re early,” Sanjay comments.

“Which is to be expected. Punctuality is important.” Her eyes narrow as they shift between Harold and Sigma. Links and connections run through her mind, coming up blank.

“They are guests of this city, Satya. Soon to be prominent scientists within the Ministries, we hope.”

Satya nods curtly. “I understand.”

Moira turns to Sigma and Harold with a terse smile. “Sanjay and I have a lot to discuss. Miss Vaswani here has been instructed to show you around the university in the meantime.”

Satya throws her prosthetic hand in front of her body and a blue hologram appears, lithe fingers making intricate patterns out of strings of light. At her feet, a circular device swirls and blossoms, an oval portal slowly rising from the base. She takes one step towards the portal, stops, then beckons them forward. “Come. Take my teleporter. We move swiftly.”

Satya disappears into the portal, Harold following shortly behind. Sigma takes a few deep breaths, his head turned towards Moira and Sanjay disappearing into the crowd, fake smiles disappearing into harsh frowns before his body is surrounded by cold blue light. He can’t help but think this light felt wrong and icky on his skin. It’s not warm and safe like Harold’s light.

When he steps through, he finds himself in front of a small garden. Pillars of stone rise from the earth, footsteps marking the paths between buildings. Satya does not wait for them to get used to their surroundings, walking forward with purpose. Harold barely scrambles to catch up with her, while Sigma continues floating forward.

She shows them around the campus, giving historical anecdotes about each individual area. She explains the creation of the university, the six different departments within the Ministries, the expectations that comes with being a scientist under such an eminent university. As a tour guide, she is droll but informative, precise with how she wields her words. She does not open up much about herself unless asked, and even then it is bare bones and vague. All she reveals is her name, Satya Vaswani, and her career, an architech of Vishkar.

Sigma doesn’t really pay attention to her words. Instead, he watches Harold’s emotive face, eyes wide in curious fascination, the glimmer of excitement in his smile. There have been days long past where Sigma longed to capture that smile, to let it grow and flourish for all eternity, beyond the bounds of time and space. Now he enjoys it for its brief warmth, because he knows it will soon disappear. He knows what will happen before he’s even aware of it.

“I’m sorry, I never actually introduced myself,” Harold interrupts as they pass by the administrative office for the Ministry of Geology. He sticks his hand out. “Dr. Harold Winston. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Vaswani.”

Satya suddenly stops to stare at Harold’s hand, then at his face. Her expression is quizzical, concerned. Like she’s looking directly at a ghost.

“Harold Winston of…Lucheng Interstellar?”

And just like that Harold’s easygoing expression falls. “You know who I am?”

Her lips dip into a frown. “Please do not jest with me. If this is a coincidence, I find it quite far-fetched.”

“I’m not jesting, I…” Harold’s lips press tight. “Where did you hear my name from?”

“It’s all over the news. Lucheng Interstellar is trying to regain contact with Horizon One lunar base after all these years.” Satya shakes her head. “I think it’s rather unnecessary. The images I’ve seen show such signs of disrepair and chaos. I do not know how they think they can salvage it in its current state.”

“Who’s running this mission?” His tone is frantic, his eyes are wild and crazed. “Who’s running Lucheng?”

“Why are you so insistent on knowing?”

Harold stares at Satya for the longest time. Recognition dawns slowly like the sunrise. She takes a step back, nearly tripping on an uneven brick, but quickly recovers herself.

“I see,” she mumbles, her quiet tone laced with unease. “My earlier accusation was rash.”

Harold frowns. “Is it common knowledge that I…that Dr Harold Winston died on Horizon?”

“You are a dead man walking,” she comments. Her eyes narrow. “What is your purpose here?”

“I’m just a scientist,” Harold utters. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

"Your presence here cannot be a coincidence." Satya crosses her arm protectively over her body. "What is Sanjay planning?"

Though Harold tries to mask it, Sigma see the sadness behind his smile. He approaches Harold silently, resting his hand on Harold’s back. There’s tension on Harold’s shoulders, but there’s also something else, a dormant power waiting to burst, a demon quelled by sheer willpower alone.

Sigma turns to Satya. “I think the two of us are just going to roam around.”

“I have strict instructions to show you to your rooms and—”

“Please,” Harold implores.

Satya stiffens. Her eyes dart between the two men, trying her best to connect the dots. After a few seconds, she hefts a heavy sigh. “So be it. Roam around if you wish, but I must tell you that your presence is expected at dinner in Dynasty Hall at 6pm. I trust you shall not be late.”

“We will not, thank you, Miss Vaswani,” Sigma says, leading Harold away. His hand remains firm on Harold’s back, a small gesture of comfort.

They walk the paths in silence, down the brick roads of territory unknown. Sigma is not sure if it’s the time of day or some other factor he has yet to consider, but without other people roaming the campus, the university feels cold and lifeless, not unlike the ruined Horizon One base. He turns to Harold, expecting a forced joke, a pained admission of his worries, some insight into the swirling expanse that is Harold Winston’s mind, but Harold is unnaturally silent. He knows better than to talk now. Even if it pains him, he must embrace the silence and let Harold come to his own conclusion. They continue forward without a direction in mind.

Minutes later, Harold stops to sit at a lone bench. It sits beneath a large evergreen tree, a small but welcome protection from the harsh middle eastern sun. Sigma sits down next to him, close and far at the same time, his hands clenched at his side. Harold takes off the blue tinted glasses and folds them into his jacket, his gaze low. Sigma holds back the instinct to take Harold’s hand into his own and kiss it. This isn't a fairy tale, he has to remind himself. They are old men. 

“You know, I didn’t completely believe you," Harold says quietly. "The first time, I mean, when you told me you thought I was dead. I mean…I think it’s better to say that I didn’t think it was such public knowledge. It’s so weird hearing your own name said like that. Like you don’t exist. Like you're not alive.”

“It’s part of the reason why I don’t go by Siebren anymore,” Sigma admits. “In a way, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper died on that international space station. I’m just Sigma, the stranger with all his memories, living his life in his honour.” The other reasons are too painful to discuss now.

“You never told me about that accident. Was that how you got your powers?”

“I figured out the secret to harnessing a black hole. Or at least I thought I did. But something went wrong, and a miniature black hole was formed and then mass and density and force all collided. I lost my mind.” Sigma stares at his knees. “Everyday I fear losing it again.”

“At least you look like you have some control,” Harold murmurs.

“It took a long time for me to master my abilities. I learned early on that my powers were dictated by my mental stability. Mind over matter, you could say. After the accident, I was sent to a special government facility. They were supposed to look after my condition but they manhandled me and they injected me with so many things and they carved implants into my skin and…” Sigma has to stop and breathe, stop and breathe. The dark whispers sing their horrid song in his ears. His hands shake.

Harold places his hand on his shoulder and squeezed softly, a welcoming distraction. Sigma focuses on the slight pressure of Harold’s fingertips, the faint body heat that emanates, and feels the tension siphon away from his body. The dark whispers are swept away with the breeze, leaving him feeling lightheaded. His body has already succumbed to Harold Winston's touch. 

“I was tortured too,” Harold admits quietly, his throat tight with emotion. “I used the genetic therapy meant for Specime—Winston—and it changed my body. On Horizon Two, they healed me up initially, put me through rehabilitation, but I knew their intent. They were the B-team, living off breadcrumbs. If they can steal my research for themselves, they can get more funding and further their existence. And when I refused to divulge my secrets, they were forced to utilize…other means.”

Sigma is not completely surprised to hear this, but it does little to quell the cold dread that sweeps through his veins. He’s had his suspicions. Harold, honest and kind to a fault, hides his pain behind a smile. He doesn’t keep secrets, and the few that he does, it’s usually for good reason.

Harold’s hand trails down from Sigma’s shoulder, past his arm and down to his hand, prone and wanting. Sigma stares at their conjoined hands, feels that familiar push as gravity turns his head for him, casting his gaze onto Harold’s face. And Harold looks up at him as the connection deepens and Sigma knows deep in his bones that Harold feels the same strings of gravity pulling them together. The universe wants them to be together. It yearns for the day the two planets collide into one another with explosive force. Sigma yearns for it too. Perhaps for years. Maybe even decades.

Harold runs his thumb in circles around Sigma’s hand, his touch gentle, affectionate. “We’ve changed so much,” he whispers.

“We have,” Sigma murmurs. “But it doesn’t feel different between us. It still feels the same.”

“We haven’t changed enough, have we?”

“No.” Harold’s thumb slides up to his wrist. The movement is so delicate and fragile. Sigma suppresses a shudder. “Perhaps not enough.”

Memories resurface in that moment of the last time Harold touched him like this. Years ago, back on Horizon One, they shared a tearful goodbye before Siebren must fly back down to Earth. That final night, they traced constellations on hands, and then on faces and arms and chests and hips. Their kisses burned with the light of a dying star. Their breaths condense into stardust before their very eyes. It was the last time they saw each other before the fateful rebellion up on Horizon One lunar base. The last time they'd see each other until many years later, after a decade of thinking the other one dead.

“I-I thought you were gone," Sigma admits.

“And I thought you forgot about me,” Harold smiles weakly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He breathes out the sorrow and pain of years gone by and concentrates on the hand on top of his own. Slowly he shifts, intertwining his fingers with Harold’s. Harold was gone for so many years, but he’s here now. It’s not a dream, not an illusion. He is real. What they have is still real.

“I’ll always be here for you, Harold. Until the end of time itself.”

Harold squeezes his hand. "Until the end of time," he whispers.

They watch as the sunsets over the buildings, nestled beneath the shade of the tree. The rhythm of life throbs in their veins, a small smile spreading across their faces as they lean into each other. As Harold rests his head on Sigma’s shoulder, his head on top of Harold’s, he hears the rise and fall of Harold’s chest, the whip of the wind, the staccato thumps of a human heart. Oasis is beautiful, he thinks, but it’s nowhere near as beautiful as Harold Winston.

* * *

Dynasty Hall has a grand buffet and a classical string quartet and is stock full of intelligent, like-minded individuals, but Sigma cannot enjoy it. Above the music, above the chatter, he hears the dark whispers sing to him their fears and worries. They taunt him just as much as they warn him, their voices shrill and high in their menacing serenade.

He does not have anyone to comfort him. Not Moira, not Harold. They are talking to the members of the Ministries of Genetics and Biology respectively, chatting along to the topic of the day, Sigma suspects. Sigma sits at his assigned table, sipping the non-alcoholic champagne, watching the scene unfold before him with veritable unease. Much as he loves food and drink, not even that simple joy can distract him. He sees Harold laugh at something, maybe a terrible pun or a silly joke, and it’s like the black hole is swallowing him from the inside out.

He can’t stay here. He doesn’t belong. Not anymore.

He finds his way to one of the university’s libraries and grabs a computer. It’s relatively empty, save for a few stray staff and students. The library is prestigious enough to offer a pair of headphones for his needs and he puts them on, adjusting them so they fit snugly over his head. He needs a distraction, something to take him away from his thoughts, something to drown out the whispers.

Sigma starts searching for songs that he liked. The genre didn’t matter, as long as it’s not too depressing. But typically,when it came to searching the internet, it doesn’t just end at songs. News articles pop up on current events. A celebrity died. Omnic tensions are on the rise once more. A musician named Lucio released a new album. He scours through them all. He’s searching for something, but he does not know what it is until he finds it.

It’s innocuous enough. Rumours have sprung that Overwatch was possibly reforming in defiance of the Petras act. The news website asks its viewers to vote on their opinions. The majority are uncertain about Overwatch's return. 

_Didn’t that article say that Winston was part of Overwatch? _

Before he can stop and reconsider, his fingers are already flying over the keyboard. Nestled nearly within the internet is the story of Winston's life, his rise to fame, his scientific endeavours, his disappearance after the fall of Overwatch. A myriad of different emotions bubble within Sigma's chest. He remembers when Winston was just a baby, so small he could fit on his arms. And now they live on, continuing Harold’s memory. Sigma wonders how Harold would feel. Proud, he thinks. He always did love the little chimp, even if he never admitted so out loud. Secretly, Sigma did too .

He scrolls through, looking through everything until he come to a single news report that takes his breath away.

_Primal Punch! Gorilla from the moon saves the day!_

The picture is of Winston fighting a man known as Doomfist the Successor. There’s no mistaking it. It’s an older photo but it is definitely Akande. 

"Doomfist?" That couldn't be right. Akande is big and intimidating, but the article called him a terrorist. Sigma reads on.

The incident was over five years ago, when Doomfist starts a fight on the streets of Singapore. Overwatch is called in, but they are no match. They talk of a fist fight, in which Winston won, and Doomfist is incarcerated. In the comment section is a list of all his other crimes. Murder, larceny, destruction of property, among others. At one point, he even had a wanted poster.

“This cannot be.”

Suddenly the computer glitches violently before the screen turns black. From the dim a purple sugar skull symbol glows in the centre. Within a few seconds, light filters in, revealing a private message app that Sigma’s never encountered before.

_It’s your very best friend. Took a while to find it, didn’t you, Sigma?_

“Sombra?” Sigma tries to type a message in response, but the keyboard doesn’t work. Nothing seems to be working. His head whips around but there’s no one in sight, no staff or students. The timing is too convenient. He stares at the cameras. Is it just him or does it look like the camera is winking?

On screen, a text bubble shows three dots.

_You didn’t tell me Dr. Winston was your boyfriend_

_Should’ve figured though. You make a cute couple. Talk about an old married couple, eh?_

“Get to the point,” Sigma mutters under his breath. If Sombra really is watching him from the cameras, he hopes his blush isn’t too obvious.

_I happen to know how to get ahold of the gorilla. _

_He’s doing this recall thing. Trying to reform Overwatch again. _

_Bit silly in my opinion, but I’m not one to judge_

_Either way, his communication lines are all yours. Say the word and I’ll let you talk to him._

_What do you say?_

A small line flickers in and out to a silent rhythm. Sigma notices that he’s finally got control of the mouse and keyboard. His fingers glide over the keys and hesitate. Shouldn’t this be for Harold? They are the ones who share the name, Harold was the one to look after Winston like a father.

_Tick tock tick tock Sigma_

He was never a fast typer, but he gets his message out quick enough.

_You should be asking Harold, not me_

_You don’t wanna know the truth?_

After a few seconds, Sigma decides not to type a reply. He doesn’t have an answer to give Sombra. The whispers seem so much louder all of a sudden, as if threatening to consume his body. They murmur in dissent, dissatisfied with his decision.

_Well, if you change your mind, I’ll know._

_This is a limited time deal, though. You’ve got a week to talk this over with your boyfriend_

_I won’t peek on your conversation with the gorilla, I promise ;P_

The sugar skull symbol appears flashes before his eyes and suddenly the computer is normal again. The article is in front of him, Winston’s gruff looking portrait peeking out from the corner. He can’t bare to look at it anymore. He closes the article and turns off the library computer and presses his fingers into his scalp. Songs and formulas fly through his head, but they give him no comfort. In his mind’s eyes, all he sees is Harold and Winston’s faces, smiling and laughing. It makes his heart wretch and his head ache and he doesn’t know why.

As Sigma sits alone in the library, his eyes squeezed so tight no tear could ever stain his cheeks, the universe hums him a tune of its own creation. It tells him the story of the future. There will be pain, and sacrifices must be made, but if he makes the correct decision, the rest of his life will be a happy one. But alas, he does not understand the universe’s language. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t be so nervous. Maybe then he could prepare. Until then, he is a puppet, acutely aware of the strings that pull at his limbs.

He doesn’t cry that day, but it’s the closest he’s come since Harold’s death.


	6. Raging tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this chapter is special because it also has a PODFIC version! Check it out below on Soundcloud. I spent a LOT of time on this, so if you guys like this let me know so I know I should do this for future chapters

Chapter 6: Raging tempest

Oasis University is nice enough to provide Harold with a lab for the time being, giving him a taste of what it will be like as a professor of the university. And in all honesty, he has no true complaints about the facilities. The technology they provide is state-of-the-art, the other scientists have been nothing but kind and supportive, and the sheer volume of samples at his disposal is near limitless. The amount of work he could do here is limited only by his imagination. There are moments when he thinks his earlier fears are unfounded, that Oasis is a nice university with friendly people, but then he hears something. A tiny rumour, a hushed whisper, and the hairs on his back prickle in attention.

They always start the same way. “Have you heard about the talks between the Ministries and Vishkar?”

Since his initial arrival, Harold has used his time learning more about the university and especially about the mysterious Vishkar. None of it is good. Everything from the destruction of Brazil’s favelas and the inadequate support for the displaced citizens, to the torturous teaching methods it allows within its Architech academies, to the shady backroom dealings with world governments.

The last one unsettles him the most, because it’s the one most likely to be true. He sees it in the almost militaristic way Vishkar cordons off the building where their employees work and sleep. He sees it in the soul sucking gaze they give him when he passes their way. It doesn’t help that he knows what the others don’t. That Sanjay Korpal, negotiator and board member of Vishkar, is on friendly terms with the Ministries’ own Dr. Moira O’Deorain. That Sanjay Korpal is on friendly terms with a leading member of Talon.

Despite his best efforts, he wasn’t able to get much on Talon. They are primarily a security organization with a mercenary army, though they also offer funding to many charities and research projects—mostly controversial ones with big potential. Apart from that, they’re rather elusive. Shady, but nothing he didn’t know already. Nothing conclusive. 

On the third day of his stay, the university sends for him. Two women in the Oasis administration uniform tell Harold that he is ready to be interviewed. The time for judgment is near. He packs up his equipment, fiddles with the tubes sticking out of his neck, and follows them outside. Holstered within his lab coat is his trusty jet injector gun, cannisters of ammunition stuffed into his pockets.

He’s led out of the lab and down the campus walkways to a nondescript building at the north eastern corner. It's one of the few buildings left behind from Oasis's formative years, a testament of time. The pair show him up a flight of stairs that leads into a narrow hallway. Middle-aged men and women lean against the wall or sit down on the available stools, reading their notes, chatting in furtive tones. When he arrives, they all stop and stare, first at his unkempt face, then at the Lucheng Interstellar logo on his lab coat.

He frowns to himself, taking a seat on the bench closest to the stairs. The other people sitting on the bench scoot away from him.

“I don’t bite,” he says in the vague direction of the person sitting next to him. His smile is forced but sincere. “I won’t infect you either. Not on purpose, anyway.”

No one pipes up with anything, just continue staring at him. He hears them whisper about him when he thinks he's not paying attention and his stomach falls. Harold keeps his head down and waits for his name to be called. 

He passes the time by staring at the lone clock, watching and waiting for the hours to tick on by. Every now and then he gets a glimpse into the room where the interview takes place. A long desk can be seen, with two people perfectly visible, the university’s symbol emblazoned on their jackets. There are another two people in the room, but all Harold can see of either of them are their arms folded over the table. Bits and pieces of their conversation drift into the hallway, but it’s muted against the heavy grain of the door.

“Dr. Harold Winston?” An assistant calls.

He stands up slowly, rubbing his back as he makes his way over, an unwelcome reminder of his age. The door is open for him, the interviewers chatting amongst themselves. There are two men of Iraqi descent chatting with one another in their native language, while the other two, a Caucasian man and woman, converse in English. His eyes widen as a cold shiver running down his spine. He has heard the woman's voice before. It's haunted his dreams for years.

He pauses in front of the doorway, gaping as he takes in her figure. Her brown hair is kept in a rough ponytail, and her makeup is heavy, but not even she can hide the ugly scar that covers half her face. There’s no questions about it. It’s her. It’s Dr. Tempest Williams. 

“Come on in,” one of the other scientists gestures at him. “Don’t be shy, this won’t take long.”

Harold’s had nightmares of Tempest finding him and tying him up to a bed again, just like she did back in Horizon Two. Her smile is almost sweet as she pierces his skin with a syringe, giggling in delight as she extracts the elixir of life from his veins, leaving his hollow carcass to writhe helplessly.

He takes a step back, one hand bracing the doorway for stability. His smile is weak, forced. “I-I just…I just realized I’ve got something to do. An emergency.”

Dr. Tempest Williams’s neck creaks all too slowly to his direction. Her expression is neutral but her gaze speaks of fire and fury, a predator that has found its prey.

“Dr. Winston,” she purrs. “We meet again.”

He takes another step back, then another, and before anyone can say another word, he rushes down the stairs and bolts past the front door.

Out on the campus, the students have come out in droves, roaming around as they head to their classes. Behind him, one of the security guards slowly approach him, muttering something into an earpiece. Harold shoves his way past the throngs of people, stamping his way through with what he hopes is an intimidating look. He knows the guards are following him, but he doesn’t dare turn his head to find out. He has to get to his room in Ifrit dormitory.

He swipes his card to enter and quickly shuts the door behind him before anyone can get in. He leans against the wall, reminding himself to breathe. Ifrit dormitory is an Oasis University-sanctioned building that acts like an apartment for visiting dignitaries and guests. He remembers Satya mentioning that only the Ministers have full access to all buildings within the Oasis campus. Only special security guards have access to this building. It’ll buy him some time. Just enough time to get his essentials, call Siebren, and escape this place.

He can’t stay here anymore. Not if Tempest is here. Not after what he did to her back on Horizon Two.

He takes the elevator and presses the button for the 11th floor, where his room is. In the eerie silence, his heartbeat is so loud. Hestares at his golden reflection, haggard and tired, a shadow of himself. What will he say to Siebren, he thinks. What can he say to Siebren? It's easy to imagine that look of horror and disgust on Siebren’s face if he tells him the truth. There’s no way Siebren will take this well, especially not on such short notice. And even if he does, there’s little chance he will just run away with Harold. His position in the Ministries is almost ensured. He’s found himself new friends in Talon and Oasis. Siebren will never give that up for him.

But…what if he does? What if Siebren trusts him?

Harold scowls at his own reflection. “Don’t kid yourself, Harold. Do you really think Siebren will just run away with you because you asked? He doesn’t love you enough to sacrifice everything for you. Not anymore.”

His reflection opens their mouth to say otherwise, but the elevator dings open, and they disappear with the retreating doors. With a sigh, he steps out into the narrow, off-white hallway.

A warm red carpet lines the ways to the various rooms, metallic lanterns providing some ambient light to guide his way. It is towards the end of the hallway that he sees three figures near the door to his room. They’re draped in dark body armour, an orange visor covering their faces. Two of them have energy assault rifles in their hands, while the third fiddles with the door. He takes a step forward, there's a beat, and soon they all turn to him expectantly. They've been waiting for him, Harold realizes.

The one fiddling with the door stands up and speaks. His stance is firm, ready for a fight. “Dr. Harold Winston, please come with us.”

Harold whips out the jet injector gun from his pocket and squeezes the trigger. A purple energy bullet hits the first guard in the neck. They fall face first to the ground, unconscious but alive

The two assassins don’t waste their time. The first readies their rifle while the other opens up a communicator on their arm.

“The Jade Hare is hostile! I repeat, the Jade Hare is hostile!”

Harold tries for the doors nearest him. The first one is locked, but the second one is open. He ducks inside just as the whine of energy rounds fires through the air, peppering the door with holes. It’s a tiny single room apartment, identical to Harold’s own, with very little in the way of furniture. There’s a desk, a bed, some drawers with a TV on top, and a wardrobe. Nothing to hide behind.

He hugs the wall next to the door and checks the vial levels on the jet injector. Seven shots left before he’s empty. A quiet “tsk” left his lips. He’s by no means a spectacular shot, and he knows from experience how long it takes to reload his weapon. Every shot he misses is an opportunity lost. He has to be careful.

The cleaning lady stares at him wide-eyed from the opposite side of the room, her quivering finger pointing at the jet injector. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, a hail of bullets rips through her body. The bed shields the gruesome sight from Harold’s eyes. The two assassins silently creep in, taking her crippled, dead body. By the time they notice Harold, it’s too late. Harold fires two rounds into the first target. They both ricochet off the body armour.

“You’re tenacious for an old man.”

Harold grits his teeth as he suddenly charges forward, using them as a human shield to block the bullets from the second assassin. The energy bullets from the rifle ping off the body armour of the first assassin, flying in all different directions around the room, ripping through the walls. After a few seconds, the gunfire ceases. Harold hears a distinct click, the sound of a gun without ammo. He pushes the jet injector right into the first assassin’s jugular vein and shoots. They fall limply in his arms, before he shoves them carelessly down to the ground. He takes advantage of the final assassin’s confusion, shoving past them into the hallway.

“Jade Hare is on the move,” they growl into the communicator. “Call for backup!”

Harold stumbles his way through the empty hallway and fumbles for the keycard to his room. He enters and shuts the door behind him, searching for anything to help him black the door. His eyes fall on the wardrobe. He shoves it with all his might, but it doesn’t budge. It’s bolted to the floor.

The assassin lets out a volley of bullets into the door, and Harold ducks, pressing his back to the wall. As the assassin loads up another round of bullet, Harold takes two shots through the bullet holes. They clatter off the wall.

“Four bullets left,” Harold tells himself silently.

He stares down at his trembling hands, shaking in terror. He can feel the fire coursing through his blood, threatening to burn him from the inside, pulling the oxygen away from his lungs. His mind is not on the horrible mistakes he’s made in the past, or the events that led him to this moment. Instead his mind is on his deepest, darkest regrets. He never got to tell Siebren his true feelings. He never got to kiss Siebren one final time.

“Dr. Harold Winston,” the final assassin says through the door. “Come on out, and we won’t hurt you.”

“How can I believe that?” Harold shouts.

“Stand down, soldier,” a female voice says. Their high heels click slowly on the hard floors, getting closer and closer before coming to a stop right in front of his room’s door. In the distance, Harold thinks he hears the sounds of sirens, echoing throughout the campus. Though he cannot see her face, it’s easy to imagine the sinister smirk that spreads across Tempest’s face. “You’ll come out for me, won’t you?”

Harold doesn't respond. He doesn't want her to hear him and his quivering throat. He doesn't want to show her any weakness.

“You’ve become so stubborn recently. Why is that? Is it your new company?” Tempest chuckles under her breath. “I’ve heard you’ve been getting comfy with the Minister of Genetics. Lucky you.”

“You’re not doing a good job of convincing me to come out.”

“Not even for your friend, Dr. de Kuiper?”

Behind the door, Harold sees the blue light of a hologram. He hears the sounds of military boots on stone tiles, the click of multiple guns taken off their safety. _“Bravo in position. Newton spotted,”_ a soldier says_. _Far in the distance, Harold can hear Siebren’s humming clear as day, a distracted little tune he sings when he’s busy in his work. The hologram fades away.

Harold doesn't realize he's crying until he feels the tears drop down his face. “N-no,” Harold whispers.

“I’ll call my men off if you come with us quietly.” Tempest added, “I won’t hurt you. I won’t even touch you or do anything to you. I promise.”

Harold stares forlornly at his gun, takes in a shuddery breath, and blinks away the tears. Slowly he pushes himself off the wall and slowly opens the door. Despite his fear, he’s strangely at ease with his decision. For a lot of people, especially for Siebren, he will sacrifice a lot of things. Even his own life. It's comfortable, familiar.

In the hallway, Tempest smiles warmly at him. The hologram loops over and over in her hands, footsteps and clicking and humming. Harold stares at the barrel of the gun pointed at his forehead. In the distance he thinks he hears panicked shouts and bloodcurdling screams and the quiet tinkling of a piano. Everything is in slow motion, but his body is even slower to react. It’s an unkind reminder of his age.

“Still so naïve, Specimen 31,” Tempest says.

The assassin fires his gun directly into Harold’s chest. The flash sizzles away, the gunshot ringing in his ears, but Harold still stands, unaffected. His body is surrounded by a protective golden light. Harold’s blood vessels swell and bulge, glowing brightly underneath his skin. His eyes shine like beacons, dark irises hidden behind the glowing light. While the light is around him, he is invulnerable. Invincible. Nothing can touch him.

Before the assassin has time to gape, Harold shoots a bullet directly into their chin, making them fall to the ground. His eyes are aflame as he stomps towards Tempest, his weapon ready on her body, but she grins wickedly. She takes out from a pocket in her coat a tiny remote and clicks on a button. In an instant, the light is gone, and an overwhelming pain seizes his body. He falls to his knees, mouth agape as the skin on his hands turn thin and purple like a ghoul.

“It really is true,” she marvels. Her voice is excited and gleeful. Dangerous. “The nanobots, you can control them. They protect you. They keep you alive. But you’re weak without them, aren’t you, Specimen 31?”

She dangles the remote in front of his face but he’s too weak to attempt to snatch it. He’s wheezing, choking on the air. Each breath he takes in is another lungful of poison.

“I learned from our previous fight, you against Dr. Talbot and I. You really are smart, but I am smarter.” She crouches in front of him, her hand roughly cupping his jaw. “You might think your secret dies with you, but we’ve got a mission to go up to Horizon One. The original notes should still be there in the base’s emergency drives. Your so-called ‘secret serum’ won’t be secret for long.”

“T-then…then why are you here?” Harold splutters, before collapsing fully on the ground. He’s feeling light-headed already. He can’t breathe anymore. Everything is too hard. It’s just too hard.

“It’s very simple,” Tempest traces the pattern of her scar on his cheek with a long nail. “Revenge for Dr. Talbot, of course. Revenge for the scar you gave me!”

“Get away from him!” Siebren screams.

One second, Tempest whips around to see Siebren, bloody and angry. The next, she’s suspended high in the air. Harold hears a haunting melody play, a cruel mixture between cascading piano arpeggios and dark whispers and Shepard tones. Siebren waves his hand, and the remote flies away from Tempest’s hand to his own. Hovering in mid-air, it collapses in on itself, the force of gravity crushing it into bits and pieces of electronics.

Harold gasps as strength returns to his body. He stands up on shaky legs, watching as Tempest flails helplessly above his head.

“Siebren,” Harold breathes. “You can stop.”

But Siebren doesn’t listen to him. He’s rising higher himself, the back of his skull glowing blue. His expression is vacant, without life or soul, a black hole ready to consume all in its path. It’s not Siebren in front of Harold any more. This is the man known as Sigma. This is the man all of Talon fears.

His fingers curl slowly inwards, his teeth crunching together in a vicious snarl. Tempest shrieks as she struggles against an invisible box, crushing her from all sides.

“Siebren? Let her down.”

“I detest violence—” Siebren growls.

“Siebren!”

“—but I will make sure you never hurt Harold again!”

“I said, let her down, Sigma!”

The music stops as Siebren turns to Harold. The vacant expression turns into surprise, then confusion, and finally sorrow. The back of his skull stops glowing. He drops his hand down to his side and Tempest falls to the ground with a thud. He floats back down so he’s standing on his own two feet.

With the last remnants of his strength, Harold limps towards Tempest. Inky tears stain Tempest’s cheeks, obscuring her scar. “T-thank you, thank you,” she blubbers in relief. “Thank y—”

Without another thought, Harold shoots the last bullet into her arm before she can say more. Dr. Tempest Williams falls into a dreamless sleep.

Harold takes a step back, feeling for the wall behind him before slumping against it. He glances down at his arm, thin and pale like a skeleton, and frowns. Slowly, he takes the empty cannister out and twists in a new one filled with golden liquid. He aims it at a visible blood vessel, grits his teeth, and presses the trigger. The pain comes and goes in seconds. Soon, his arm starts to look like human flesh again. He tilts his head to the sky and releases his grip, the jet injector clattering harmlessly on the ground.

Siebren approaches Harold silently. Now that Harold can get a proper look at him, he sees that Siebren’s clothes are ruined, a few stray bullet holes ripping through his lab coat. His left arm is bleeding lightly, specks of blood painting his cheeks.

“Harold,” he sighs.

Harold doesn’t respond with a reply. Instead, he closes the distance between their bodies, pulls Siebren’s head down towards him with both his hands, and presses a long, slow kiss to his lips. It’s selfish, and sudden, and not at all how Harold imagines his kiss with Siebren will be. The taste of copper is on his tongue and the ugly stench of sweat and tears clogs the air, but it doesn’t matter. It’s right for all the wrong reasons.

When Harold retreats, Siebren is staring at him. His lips quiver microscopically, ruby coloured and ajar. Behind light blue eyes, Harold sees the world—sees Earth—in all its beautiful glory.

Guilt creeps up his throat. “S-sorry, I just…I needed this,” Harold mumbles. He presses his forehead into Siebren’s shoulder. “Just…needed this.”

Siebren lets out a deep breath. His hand tentatively rests on the back of Harold’s skull, pulling him close. He stares at the ceiling. “You’re in shock,” he whispers. “What…what was that power, Harold?”

“You saw?”

“I can feel it. Right now, hovering about your body. It’s pulsing within you. Like it’s a part of you.”

Harold closes his eyes. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise. I will tell you everything.”

Siebren hums affirmatively. The noises of the world drown away from Harold's ears. All he hears is Siebren, choking back a sob as he clutches him tightly. "I'll hold you onto that," he whispers delicately into his ear.

* * *

By the time evening falls, it’s all over the news. Two gunfights have erupted in two separate locations within Oasis University, sending the students into a panic. The reason for the shootings is unknown, although many suspect terrorist involvement. According to news agencies, it is the combined effort of Vishkar’s security, as well as the university’s own, that prevented any deaths from occurring and the successful apprehension of the gunmen. Dr. Tempest Williams, the only person to get injured as a result of the shootings, has refused to speak about the incident. The gunmen are currently being held in prison.

Siebren called in a favour earlier with Sombra, who hid all digital tracks of their whereabouts during the shootings. The police don’t give him a second glance, and don’t even ask him for an interview. That didn’t stop them however from evacuating the entire Ifrit Dormitory building. Forensics say it’ll take them at least a few days. Until then, he’s without a place to stay.

The university have generously offered to pay for Harold’s stay in one of the nearby hotels until his room is available again, but Siebren offers his own university-provided accommodations. Dutch hospitality, that is his excuse, but Harold sees the shy smile he gives when he thinks Harold doesn’t see.

Siebren slides his keycard in and opens the door for Harold. His room is almost a picture-perfect replica of Harold’s room, except for a few minor details. Papers are strewn over the desk with Siebren’s messy scrawl. The King size bed is unmade on one side, Siebren’s silk pyjamas sitting on a pile near the foot of the bed. On top of the dresser is a portable speaker, currently off and charging at 92%.

Siebren runs his hand over the back of his head. “I wasn’t expecting guests,” he smiles sheepishly.

“I can tell,” Harold smiles. His eyes fall on the bed. “Do you want me to sleep on the floor or…?

“N-no, no, absolutely not. Sleep on the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Harold frowns. “Siebren, there’s no space.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Will you really?” A small laugh escapes his lips. “Why don’t we both take the bed? Sleep together. Just like old times.”

“We shouldn’t,” Siebren says quietly, but there's not firmness in his tone. He's not entirely convinced by his own words.

Harold shrugs in a way he hopes looks nonchalant. “After everything we’ve done today, I think we deserve a rest.”

“I suppose,” Siebren utters. A small smile escaping his lips before he clears his throat loudly. “J-just this one time, of course.”

Harold knows this won’t be a ‘one time’ thing, but he doesn’t want to push his luck and call Siebren out on it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers over the wires and tubes that stick out of his skin. Siebren stands in front of him, taking in the burst capillaries that stain his skin purple and the age spots that dot his arms. His lips dip microscopically.

“You said you’d tell me everything,” he says.

Harold expects this. He nods shallowly, his head low. “Promise me you’ll at least keep an open mind.”

“I promise."

Harold stares into Siebren’s eyes for confirmation, but only sees his own reflection in return. In Siebren’s eyes he looks handsome and young, glowing with radiant beauty. A god trapped in a mortal body, or perhaps the reverse. With a quiet smile, he shuffles the coat off his shoulders. His hands reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. The shirt drops by his side

Siebren stares wide-eyed at his upper body. "H-Harold," he gasps. 

Harold’s torso is covered in a variety of electronics. A pacemaker implant can be seen over his heart, a ventilator pressed near his hip, working to the invisible rhythm of his heart and lungs respectively. Cybernetic implants run all the way down Harold’s chest and upper arms, drawing deep lines on his skin. A spinal implant claws all the way down his back to his tail bone, scarring his skin.

Siebren crouches down, resting his hand carefully over the electronics. His fingers trace over the metal and flesh with reverence, making Harold suck in a breath. It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, with soft affection. His eyelids flutter. “Siebren,” he breathes.

Suddenly Siebren’s cheeks stain pink, his head turned to one side. His hand retreats to his side, the other covering his mouth. A strange thrill creeps up Harold’s chest. Being able to get Siebren to blush like this in his 40s was already an achievement; in his 60s, it’s a small silent victory. He’s tempted to use this for his own will, distract or seduce Siebren so he may never have to reveal the truth, but he knows he won't. Siebren deserves the truth. He can't hide anymore. 

Siebren finally casts his eyes back on his body, trailing down to his stomach. More tubes pierce into his skin, carrying golden liquid.

Harold knows the question before Siebren even asks it. “You’re probably wondering about that golden liquid.”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he admits.

“The short story is they’re nanobots. The longer story is that they’re the genetic therapy treatment meant for Winston. In apes, they work as intended. In human bodies however, or at least my body, the nanobots spread much more rapidly. It gave me the strength to get to Horizon Two, but it came at the cost of replacing my other cells. The nanobots gave me enhanced oxygen carrying in my haemoglobin and reduced muscle fatigue among other health benefits. But that’s not what’s special about them.”

He wills his muscles to relax as he concentrates. His blood vessels and eyes begin to glow once more, bathing him in light. Siebren stares intently at his glowing veins with utter fascination.

“The nanobots. You control them,” he gasps.

Harold nods. “Developed a few devices to help make it a bit easier for me. The spinal implant is probably the most obvious one.” He chuckles nervously to himself. “Doing remote surgery on your own back is certainly an experience.”

“And they protect you?”

“If I concentrate hard enough, I can will them to leave my body through my pores and protect me. I’m practically invincible when they’re around me like this. But if I do this for too long, well…” The light fades away from his body, dissipating into the air. Harold watches as his hands turn from a bright, healthy colour into a sickly white.

Siebren’s lips dip into a frown. “This is what they’re after, isn’t it? Those people, that lady. They want you.”

“They want the serum, not me,” Harold corrects. “The secret to the formula died with my friends back on Horizon One. The only ones still alive who know about the serum are the scientists who looked after me in Horizon Two. As soon as they found out the reason for my miraculous recovery, they all wanted to know my secrets. Dr. Williams—that lady from earlier—she was one of them.”

“She mentioned a fight,” Siebren remarks.

“There’s a reason I was alone when you found me. I had to fight them off, her and her mentor Dr. Talbot. I had to protect myself.” He stares at his knees and trembles. “I-I did so many horrible things to survive.”

“You were brave to survive.” He tilts Harold’s chin up with his hand. He’s victim to those crystal blue eyes that stare at him with the intensity of a black hole. They stare at him like he’s the only thing in this world. Like nothing else matters. 

“Siebren,” Harold shudders.

Siebren trails his fingers down Harold’s chest, placing his palm flat over Harold’s heart. A comforting gesture, that’s probably what he intends, but it lights a fire in the pit of Harold’s stomach. His eyes flutter closed as his muscles unwind. It’s been ages since he’s been touched like this. It’s been ages since Siebren’s touched him like this.

“You’ve become so strong.”

He doesn’t feel strong in that moment. He feels weak and wanting, desperate for something he’s not sure he deserves. His body leans forward into Siebren’s touch.

“Harold,” he whispers.

“Siebren.”

His breath is on his face now, warm against his cheeks. A thousand words flutter through his mind about the kiss that awaits him. They speak to him of anticipation, of longing, of stilted breathing and soft flesh, whispers growing so loud they drown out his thundering heartbeat. He waits for the fairy tale kiss to sweep him off his feet and make him forget about years and years of heartbreak.

But Siebren pauses, his lips a hair’s breath away. A million stars glitter in his eyes, each speaking of a different story, a different emotion, and suddenly he retreats, standing upright. His posture is erect and proper.

He coughs loudly into his fist. “Y-you should have a shower, Harold.”

“S-sure,” he says. Harold tries to chuckle but he cannot hide the disappointed frown that spreads afterwards. “I'm already half undressed.”

Siebren mutters something to himself as he walks over to the wardrobe and opens it. He flings Harold a white cotton towel. Harold mumbles a quick thank you before quickly ducking into the bathroom.

He turns on the shower, testing the heat before stripping the rest of his clothes in a pile. He steps into the cramped shower stall and groans in relief. Grime and blood stain the water pink as it drips down into the drain. Steam rises up in the air. Harold doesn’t stay longer than necessary, quickly washing his hair and body. The longer he stays under the hot water, the more his thoughts will inevitably drift back to Siebren and the moment they shared barely a minute ago. Things are already awkward enough. He doesn't want to make it any worse than it already is.

When he exits the bathroom, he’s only in his underwear. The towel is draped over his shoulders. He can feel Siebren's gaze lower and lower, from his damp hair down to his flat stomach, stopping near his hips. Another time, he might be excited at the prospect that Siebren still finds him attractive in his advanced age. Right now however, it's all a bit too much to handle. 

“I’ve got no pyjamas,” he explains quickly, cheeks reddening with every second. “Couldn’t get them out of my room in time.”

Siebren nods microscopically. “I-I should…I should wash myself too.” Before Harold can say anything, he’s already retreated into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

It’s been a long day, Harold realizes as he lays his head down on the bed. By the time Siebren finishes his shower, he’s already dozing off. The last thing he remembers that night are the soft pillows his head lies on, the lights turning off one by one, and then a gentle peck on his forehead as Siebren tells him goodnight. He’s not sure if he imagined the latter one. It feels too good and familiar to be real. 

When his eyes finally flutter open, there's a light pressure on his side. Siebren has curled his arm over his body, resting his hand on his chest. His nose is pressed into Harold's hairline, inhaling and exhaling quietly. His breathing is a slow metronome, a warm constant, an old memory brought to life once more. Harold shouldn't enjoy this as much as he does, but it's warm and comfortable. With every second he stays there, he melts just a little more. He leans his back into Siebren's broad chest.

"You're up," Siebren mumbles against his skin.

Harold stiffens for a second. "I-I am now."

A quiet laugh can be heard behind him. "Don't worry. We're not needed for another hour or so. I think we're entitled to sleep in."

This must be a dream, Harold thinks, but the morning sun burns his eyes from the tiniest sliver in the curtains, and the breaths near his ear are so hot, and a fire burns near his stomach, directly over Siebren's hand. A knee presses up between his legs, slotting in comfortably. Siebren's other arm slides underneath Harold's neck. He's held so closely, caressed so tenderly. 

If this is a dream, he doesn't want to wake up. If this is reality, he hopes it means he gets a second chance at new beginnings. He can't beat around the bush anymore. Sooner or later he will have to leave and live a life on the run. Sooner or later, he'll have to leave Siebren behind. 

But that time is not now, in the early morning hours. Now, while he still can, he curls into Siebren, a quiet breath of contentment fluttering in the air. He wishes in that moment that he and Siebren are a couple again, that the future only holds happiness and joy, that his life will never know pain again. 

Unbeknownst to Harold, Siebren wishes for the same thing too.


	7. Giving in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys can find me on tumblr [@alphawave-writes](https://alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/), or you can join my Sigrold discord [here](https://discord.gg/mvvJ5kp). _

Chapter 7: Giving in 

Vishkar shows its true colours suddenly, and almost violently. In the aftermath of the shootings, they campaigned for their continued presence in Oasis. They have highlighted security deficiencies, traffic congestion, and infrastructural issues as reasons their presence is necessary within the city. There are other points they bring up, but those are the important ones that the news bring to attention when Vishkar and the Ministries begin their talks in a private forum.

Protests are enacted all throughout the city, the ranks largely consisting of disgruntled University students. They argue that Vishkar’s presence ruins the fundamental rights of Oasis’s citizens, that it distorts the original purpose of the Ministries’. Having an outside company stay within the city, especially one with such a shady reputation, spells trouble.

All this is meaningless to Sigma. It’s just an extra annoyance he has to deal with.

He is sitting in a corner of Moira’s lab as she writes her notes. Another psych examination, he was told. Moira must have caught wind that Sigma was a participant in the attack, that’s why she’s checking up on him so soon. It’s the only logical explanation.

He can’t help but let his lips purse. He’s got so many questions now, especially with the protest running rampant about the university. Usually he dares not ask questions because he respects Dr O’Deorain’s privacy, but this is something he simply cannot ignore.

“How are the talks with Vishkar?” Sigma asks.

“Fine,” Moira replies curtly. She’s still writing on her pad, her face completely blank.

After a few seconds of silence, Sigma frowns. He knows Moira keeps to herself most of the time, but recently she has been unusually tight-lipped. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him. “I assume because you are friends with Mr Korpal,” he continues. “You must be campaigning for Vishkar’s presence in Oasis.”

“It’s a natural progression of events. The city has become stagnant. A bit of outside help would do it wonders.” Her eyes look up from her pad, narrowing on his face. “This session is supposed to be about you.”

“I know.” He sees the curl of her lips and soon, the melody of the universe plays. _Danger, danger_, it sings. He grits his teeth. He doesn’t know why, but every time he hears Moira’s name or sees Moira’s face, the whispers always croon their awful tune. There must be a reason, but he can’t imagine why. His eyes stare at Moira’s right hand, wrinkled and purple.

It looks so much like Harold’s skin when Dr. Williams attacked him. Harold was so fragile back then, lying there on the ground, weak and helpless and so very old. And then afterwards, when Sigma kept Dr Williams up in the air, Harold’s angry shouts shake him to the core, threatening to unravel him from the inside out. He’s become used to the moniker of ‘Sigma’, but from Harold’s lips it sounds like a demon in disguise, a twisted monster that knows only death and destruction. He never wants to hear Harold call him ‘Sigma’ again.

Sigma tries to calm himself down but it’s too late. The items on Moira’s desk begin to rattle for a second before stopping. It does not go unnoticed by Moira, who gives them a quick glance before turning her attention back to Sigma. Her gazes sharpens.

“How have you and Dr. Winston been?”

“Fine.” His throat feels so dry all of a sudden.

“You do not have to be shy around me. I understand he is very important to you.” Her lips quirk up. “It’s good to have a companion.”

Sigma cannot count the nights Harold’s spent in his bed. Even when Harold was allowed back to his own room, he continued to stay with Sigma, reading his books, using the shower, sleeping side by side in the bed. Every morning without fail, he curls up next to Sigma and smiles dreamily. Every morning without fail, Sigma contemplates kissing Harold on the lips and knowing for sure if the passion he feels is reciprocated. It’s too late, he tells himself time and time again. Even if they love each other, it’s not meant to be. Harold is going to leave soon, prepared to live a life on the run. Sooner or later, Harold will go away, and they will never see each other again.

A part of Sigma wants to stay in Oasis. As expected, he has acquired the position in the Ministry of Physics, and it will not reflect kindly on him if he just up and leaves, especially so soon after acquiring the position. But then there’s the other part of him that wants to throw caution to the wind and be by Harold’s side till the end of time. For a while he thought that Harold needed him. Now he knew that the opposite is true.

A small sigh escapes his lips, his only response to Moira. Her smile softens but her gaze is knowing.

“It’s something more,” she remarks. “Perhaps you would like to tell me about your feelings for Dr. Winston then, Sigma?”

When did his name sound so wrong? When did the name that he took from his captors start sounding so foul? What are those discordant notes in her voice that clash horribly in his ears? Why have the dark whispers returned when his mind is so clear?

Sigma suddenly stands up from his chair. He feels queasy and wrong. Something is so wrong. “I…I-I think that is enough, Dr. O’Deorain. I should get back to my research.”

But Moira stands in front of him now, sizing him up. Her tone almost sounds sympathetic. “Are you alright, Sigma?”

“Don’t call me that!” He snarls. A wave of gravity ripples through the lab, bottles and beakers suspended in the air.

Moira blinks slowly, the only one unaffected. Her polite smile fades away, daggers darting from her eyes. _Danger, danger_, the whispers say. The items slowly float back down to Earth.

“I-I’m sorry,” Sigma grimaces. He clutches his head in his hand. “I-I need to go.”

“Stay,” Moira’s blackened hand grips onto his wrist tightly.

But for once Sigma disobeys her, pulling his hand free and exiting her cool, dark lab for the sweltering middle eastern sun. The sweat that sticks on his skin is a reminder that he is alive, and he is breathing, and that this truly is reality. He does not dare gaze over his shoulder. If he did, he might have seen Moira’s lips twist into a scowl.

It’s late in the afternoon when Harold comes by Sigma’s lab in the Ministry of Physics. It’s easy to tell it’s him because of the soft glide to his gait, the walk of a dancer or a royal. He stands by the entrance, his smile as warm as the inner core of a star, and just as bright. In his right hand is a bag with three _shawarmas_. He takes one out for himself and drops the bag right in front of Sigma’s desk.

They’re delicious, Sigma knows from previous experience, and the scent drifts ever so delicately in the air, but for some reason he’s not hungry. He’s not in the mood. “_Bedankt_, Harold, but I’ll eat later.”

“You don’t want to eat _shawarma_? Who are you and what have you done to Siebren?” Harold teases.

Sigma stares at him meaningfully. Harold’s lips dip into a frown.

“Oh,” he mumbles. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet. “You want to talk about it?”

There’s a part of him that wants to tell Harold his fears. It niggles in the back of his mind, telling him something isn’t right, that something is very wrong. It speaks of ceaseless violence and unending sorrow and a harness that breaks its shackles. It scares him, and the fact that he’s scared makes it all the more unnerving. But there’s no math formula to help him here. No equation that can tell him why he feels this way. All he knows is that he feels safe with Harold. He’s the one thing anchoring Sigma to the Earth, preventing him from floating up to the stars.

“I’d rather not,” he says finally. “Some other time.”

“Fair enough,” Harold sighs, taking the seat right next to Sigma. He unwraps the _shawarma _and takes a bite. It’s hard for Sigma not to stare. When he eats, it’s like poetry in motion. Prim and proper, without a mess or spill to be seen. Symphonies could be written to the rhythm of Harold’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, lips smacking together in satisfaction. Only Harold Winston could make eating look like a fine art.

Harold suddenly glances up, gazing back into Sigma’s eyes. As of late, nebulae sparkle behind his dark irises, glittering in prismatic colours. Sigma’s seen it before, back when he was Siebren. Back when they were very much in love. 

“Do I have something on my face?”

Sigma averts his gaze back to the scattered notes across his desk. “No,” he says. “Not a speck on you.”

Harold frowns. He looks almost disappointed. “Good…” he murmurs.

“Indeed…”

Sigma goes back to his whiteboard and stares at the equations. Or at least, he tries to, but not even math can hold his attention today. He’s done absolutely no work since the psych examination with Dr. O’Deorain earlier today. His thoughts are on Talon and Oasis and Vishkar and Lucheng Interstellar and Harold. They fight for dominance over his brain. He almost misses the voices that fight for control in his mind. Almost.

“You know, I’ve prepared my stuff, Siebren. Could go any day if I wanted to,” Harold says.

Sigma can’t help but frown. “So you will leave soon then.”

His eyes glance down at his barely-eaten _shawarma_. He nods slowly. “Just need to figure out where to go from here.” His lips dip microscopically. “Would be great if you came along.”

“You don’t need me to protect you. You are more than capable.” _You’ve proven time and time again how strong you really are_, Sigma thinks but never says.

“I’m not. You saw what happened that day, I nearly died if you didn’t save me. If Tempest has a device to jam my nanobots, there must be more of them out there. And she’s still alive to tell the tale.”

“You told me not to kill her,” Sigma says pointedly.

“I know,” Harold grimaces. Quieter, he says, “I know. It’s my decision. I knew the consequences and I still chose to spare her because I’m a coward who can’t kill people. And it’s because of my cowardice that I’m even in this predicament.”

Sigma doesn’t know what to say. He can’t comfort Harold, because they both know it’s true. It could have been so easy to disguise her death as a fatal accident. It could have been so easy for Sigma to make sure she feels the same pain and suffering that Harold has felt for years. He’s killed before, and he will do it again. For Harold, he could do just about anything.

Harold stares at Sigma with cold, sad eyes. He already knows what will come out of those lips before it’s even said. “Siebren, come with me. Please.”

He expects it, but it still hurts. His heart feels like it’ll leap out of his chest. “You know I can’t,” Sigma sighs.

“Why not?”

“I’ve finally found my calling here. Under the Ministry of Physics, I can make a difference once again. Harness the harness. Learn about the mysteries of gravity.” He summons the hyperspheres in his hand. “With my abilities and their connections, I might finally unveil the universe’s true melody to all.”

Harold frowns. “But will you be happy?”

With a wave of the hand, the hyperspheres disappear. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You haven’t thought about just…retiring?” Harold asks. “You’ve already been through so much pain.”

“And joining you on a life on the run won’t put me through pain?”

Harold’s lips dip low. “I’m just thinking about your happiness, Siebren.”

“What do you know about what makes me happy?” Sigma spits.

Harold stares at Sigma for the longest time. A lifetime of love and lost flickers through his eyes before he scowls to himself, leaving only the dark emptiness of space.

Sigma forces himself to turn away. He can’t bear to look at Harold. Not now, not when the memories of their romance still linger in his mind. Not now, when he knows all too well that he will never know happiness again the day Harold Winston leaves him for good. He’s already said his final goodbye once. He doesn’t want to say it again.

“We’re different people now, Harold,” Sigma says slowly. “We’re not lovers. Haven’t been for decades.”

Harold nods microscopically. “I know,” he whispers. “We’ve changed, but…not enough. I won’t have to go on a life on the run if I had.” Harold drops his food down on the desk and approaches Sigma. “You wouldn’t let me be this close if you did.”

Sigma freezes in place. There’s a hand reaching out for his cheek, running down his neck before lying on his chest. Harold’s so close now, two smoldering embers gazing at him with the intensity of a black hole. Sigma takes in a shuddery breath, a meteor shower crashing into his chest. He can’t push Harold away, not anymore. Every instinct of his body tells him to pull him closer and never let go. It’s only by the fractured shards of his mind that he doesn’t give in. He can’t give in.

Something buzzes loudly, interrupting the moment. It’s an opening, and Sigma takes it before he may commit to one final mistake. He scrambles to his desk, running his hand on the surface wildly before he finds the culprit: his beeping phone. A message has been sent to him from the Ministries. A warning to all Ministry of Physics staff that maintenance of one of the labs will be conducted at a specific time during the weekend. It’s utterly irrelevant to him, but it’s enough of a distraction for the music to fade away on a deceptive cadence.

Harold stands there for a few seconds before turning to his half-eaten _shawarma_. He picks it up, frowns, then drops it into the bin by Sigma’s desk.

“It’s getting late,” Harold says finally, sounding far less confident than normal. “Might as well eat the other two _shawarma_ on the way back.”

Sigma does not dare say a word. His quivering throat is still full of emotion. If he speaks, Harold will know all about the pain and regret that he’s kept to himself. He might even lose himself again.

They walk in silence out of Sigma’s lab. To his relief, his shawarma is still warm in its paper, preserving its taste. Apart from the sounds of Sigma’s messy chewing, it’s oddly quiet in the university courtyard despite the time of day. There’s a side of him that fears that Lucheng has already made their move, or worse, that another fatal incident has occurred without his knowledge. But as they head to the main courtyard, he sees that it’s something far worse. There are protestors outside Dynasty Hall, where the Ministries and Vishkar are currently having their talks. Vishkar’s bodyguards stand in front, photon blasters holstered on their side, stoic amongst the frenetic chants of the protestors.. The tension is thick in the air, and it stinks of violence and hatred. One small act of aggression, and there will be a fight here.

“Let’s go around,” Harold says.

But Sigma doesn’t move. He hears the whispers in his mind talking to him. _Go forth, _they say, _observe_. Slave to the voices, he walks into the crowd, the people parting to let him through.

At the front of the crowd, Satya is flanked on both sides by bodyguards. She is conversing in furtive tones to someone in an aviator jacket over a sports jumpsuit. A strange device is over her chest.

_Listen, _the voices insist.

Sigma’s seen her face before. But where? Why are the whispers talking to him now? What do they know?

“You have no place here,” Satya declares.

“I’m just poppin’ round, love,” the stranger smiles.

“If you are here, the reports must be true. Overwatch wants to reform itself.” Satya murmurs to herself before catching herself. Her gaze sharpens on the stranger. “Why are you here?”

“Just on the lookout. Never said anything about Overwatch.”

“Do not play games with me.”

“Overwatch?” Harold whispers beside Sigma. “I thought they’re gone.”

The crowd is murmuring in Arabic, probably about the stranger’s appearance and the potential return of Overwatch. Many are eager. Most sound concerned. They’re all staring at Satya and the stranger.

“Your presence has already disrupted harmony.” Satya waves her hand toward the crowd. “How do I expect Overwatch to bring order amongst chaos? That is why it is Vishkar’s job to bring order. Not Overwatch.”

“Perhaps Overwatch’s time is over, but the world could always use more heroes.” From her person, the stranger takes something and clasps it into Satya’s hand. It’s too small to see what it is from this distance, but it’s enough to make Satya stiffen visibly. She gazes upon it, and a myriad of conflicting emotions bubble up to the surface.

It takes Satya a while to recover her voice. She grips his fist tight, obscuring the mysterious object from sight. “You did not answer me before. Why are you here?”

The stranger’s carefree smile falls. “Ever heard of an organization called Talon?”

Satya’s eyes are as wide as saucers. The stranger nods solemnly.

“You do,” she murmurs. “Then you know why I’m here, love.”

Satya still doesn’t speak. She cannot speak anymore. She makes a gesture at her bodyguards, who push forward, barricading her from the stranger’s sight.

The stranger takes a step back, momentarily startled before springing back with a smile. She turns around and gives a two-fingered salute to the crowd. “Cheers, love. The cavalry’s here.”

Most of the crowd cheers loudly. Some mutter in disconcert. Whispers about Overwatch’s return are everywhere, clogging the once-clear air, but all Sigma can think about is her strange words. What does she want with Talon? What does Talon have to do with Overwatch?

The stranger turns around, ready to join the crowd when she suddenly stops in her track. She stares wide-eyed in their direction. It’s then that Sigma recognizes where he saw her. She was in that newspaper clipping with Winston, hugging him tightly in a friendly manner. She had a name, but the newspaper called her ‘Tracer’.

She takes a step closer, and then another, her body in a complete trance. By his side, Sigma can feel Harold quiver. Tracer’s staring at Harold, taking in every detail, comparing him to a photograph in her mind.

“You’re…Winston’s dad?” Tracer whispers, barely audible above the dim of the crowd.

Harold grips onto Sigma’s wrist tightly, pulling him away as he takes a few steps back. Sigma barely has time to give one final glance behind his back at Tracer’s confused figure before he’s led away by Harold. He can’t concentrate on the swirling emotions that must plague Harold’s mind. His thoughts are all on the hand over his wrist, impossibly warm like the sun, heating him up from the inside out.

Harold doesn’t stop until they’re back in Sigma’s room. He paces circles around the floor, staring at a blank spot on the wall. His fists are clenched by his side. His expression is pained, conflicted. Sigma moves behind Harold, ready to surround him in a hug, but he stops himself before he can commit. The tension from earlier in the lab hasn’t completely dissipated. All he needs is one little push before he succumbs once more.

“She said Winston’s dad,” Harold whispers quietly. “Not Dr. Winston. Not Harold. Winston’s dad. That’s what she called me.”

Sigma approaches slowly, carefully monitoring the distance between their bodies. “You’re…crying.”

Harold blinks rapidly before harshly swiping his fist over his eyes. He forces a smile. “S-sorry. This must look so stupid to you. I shouldn’t be crying over such a little thing.”

Sigma quells the desire to wipe Harold’s tears away himself. He wants to place a kiss on Harold’s closed eyelids and make him smile. He wants to make Harold forget that sadness is an emotion, make him forget that pain and strife run rampant in the universe. He wants to hold Harold in his arms, but he can’t. He can’t give in, no matter how much it hurts. The pain he’ll feel if he commits will be far greater, he assures himself.

Harold takes a few moments to breathe in and out. “He told that young lady that I was his dad. And she’s trying to rebuild Overwatch?”

“Sombra told me that Winston is leading the charge. Rumours say he issued a recall to all former Overwatch agents, to band together in defiance of the law.”

“So a group of vigilantes, led by the gorilla that calls me his father, is looking for recruits?” Harold chuckles, shaking his head. “This sounds too good to be true.”

Sigma frowns. He knows what Harold will say if he asks, but he can’t stop himself. “So does that mean you will join them?”

“If they’ll let me. I mean, I’m not affiliated with Overwatch at all, but I am a scientist in my own right, with my own secrets about Lucheng. If they want to resurrect Overwatch, I’ve got valuable information. If they’re a group of vigilantes, they might be able to keep me safe at the very least. There’s no better place to hide. It all depends on if Winston will accept me or not.” Harold suddenly scowls. “It’s been so long though. What if he thinks I faked my death on purpose? What if…what if he hates me?”

“Harold, you’re overthinking it,” Sigma sighs. His eyes go cloudy as he recounts their shared past. Despite his best efforts, his lips curl up into a half-smile. “I remember how much you cared for him all those years ago. You doted on him like he was your flesh and blood, like he was human. And if you tell him the truth about your disappearance, he should understand.”

A small smile peeks out from Harold’s lips. “I don’t know how to get in contact with him though. Or anyone from Overwatch.”

Sigma contemplates telling him about Sombra’s backdoor access to Winston. All he needs to do is send her a message and Harold will finally be able to talk to Winston. They will cry happy tears when they reunite. They will tell each other the story of their lives and Winston will tell Harold what to do so he’s safe. Soon after, Harold will leave Sigma’s side and they will never see each other again for the rest of their lives.

He wants to be possessive. He wants to keep Harold here. He wants to hold Harold close by his side and protect him till the end of their days. He wants Harold to stay with him so finally, finally, he might bask in the sunlight of their love once more and know happiness.

He wants Harold to be his. But more than that, he wants Harold to be happy.

Sigma lets out a shaky breath. “…Sombra told me there’s a way to contact him,” he says slowly. “She can set it all up for us, if we tell her. She can organize a video call so you can be in contact with Winston. You two will be able to talk to one another again.”

Harold’s eyes tear up once more, reflecting the world in the droplets, and suddenly Sigma is pulled into a passionate kiss. Arms wrap around his body, pulling him down so the distance between their bodies shorten. The time when their lips touch is short, but it feels so much longer.

When they separate, Sigma sees the lines of gravity connecting them together. It pulls and pulls, desperate for the distance between their bodies to close, desperate for the fatal collision that will change the course of his fate forever. The music has returned with a thunderous crescendo, but it’s still quiet compared to the breaths that leave Harold’s lungs, heavy with emotion.

Harold stares into his eyes, and Sigma sees nebulae and galaxies glittering amidst the dark backdrop of space. He can’t look away. He doesn’t want to look away.

Harold places a hand on Sigma’s cheek and rubs circles with his thumb. A crimson blush stains his cheeks, eyes flickering down to Sigma’s lips. Sigma can feel himself uncoil and unfurl, can feel gravity threaten to leave its shackles. His body is no longer his own. He’s gone beyond the event horizon, sucked in with no escape.

“Don’t,” Sigma whispers.

“You’re smart,” Harold says. “You know what I’m thinking. You know how I feel.”

“You’re smarter than me,” Sigma admits. It’s a truth he’s acknowledged a long time ago but he’s never said aloud before. To this day, he has yet to encounter a person smarter than Dr. Harold Winston. It’s his intelligence that earned Sigma’s respect. It’s also what earned Sigma’s affections.

“I’m not,” Harold insists. “I’m nowhere near as brilliant as you.”

His breathing is a sonata, his lungs and heart a concerto. He’s made of beautiful melodies and chords that piece together to create a heavenly song. Sigma’s heard this song before. It’s the dramatic violin vibrato before the crash of the cymbals, before the world shrinks down to the two of them. The moment before two heavenly bodies collide.

When Sigma takes the plunge and kisses Harold, he swears he can hear the angels sing their perfect choir song as the universe condenses into the space of this single-bedroom apartment. His body fizzles with electricity, and his heart is leaping out of his chest, and he hears the distinct rattle in the air when he knows his emotions have made him lose control of his abilities once again, but Harold is gliding in the air with him, smiling against his lips and kissing back with equal fervor.

With the last remnants of his willpower, he pulls them down so they are finally standing. They gaze upon each other for just a second before Harold gives Sigma another kiss, and another, and then another, and countless more after that, on his lips and cheeks and neck and everything in between. When he’s done, he rests his head onto Sigma’s shoulder, his fingers clinging onto the fabric of his shirt.

“Be with me,” Harold breathes, his words so quiet and fragile. “Stay with me. Please.”

Sigma cannot reply. His lungs don’t work like they used to. Even if he could, he doesn’t know what to say, what he wants. Instead, he leads Harold to the bed, traces his fingers over the tubes on Harold’s skin, and presses his lips onto Harold’s eyelids. With every second, he feels himself melt just a little bit more

As they lay in bed, caressing each other with the utmost reverence, Sigma feels the twinkling stars chime in unison within his body. They tell him that this is right, that this is where he belongs, by Harold’s side. That he can have this if he throws caution to the wind and speak the truths the universe can never say for him. He curls into Harold, taking in his melodies. Every gasp, every moan, every sweet nothing, they are all songs that Sigma’s heard before decades ago, but it still brings out the same emotions deep within his chest. Harold still sings so beautifully, he thinks, as his fingers glide over Harold’s stomach.

The choir chant his desires. The universe hums in his ears. Harold smiles as brightly as the sun. The fragments of his mind drift away into the dark void as he gives himself up completely to Harold. He gives in, whole-heartedly, eagerly, desperately. 

Just for that night, the man known as Sigma is gone. In his place, Siebren de Kuiper returns, a phoenix rising from the ashes. For the brief moment he resides on Earth, his sole mission is to make up for all the years he spent without Harold Winston by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ The kiss has happened, but this is far from the end of this story. Will Daddy Harold get back to Winston? Find out in the next episode of Dragon ball--I mean, Evil Actions and Good Intentions _


	8. Dark side of the moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Alphawave13), [tumblr](https://alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/), or check out my [Sigma/Harold discord server](https://discord.gg/DHh26tU)_

It’s like a switch has been flipped. That’s the best way to describe it, Harold thought. As his friend, Siebren kept mostly to himself, smiling his half-smiles, making his light touches. But as his lover, he is a beast. When they're in public, nothing has changed. It’s only when they're alone does Siebren go on the attack. In the lab, they kiss until their lips are bruised and swollen. When they're eating together, they hold hands and smile warmly at each other, occasionally brushing their a hand on an arm or a thigh. In the sanctuary that is their bed, they touch and kiss until the morning light like they are young men, full of energy and love to give.

It's in these moments of emotional vulnerability that Siebren’s powers reach their peak, cutting the strands of gravity that connected them to Earth, making their bodies dance in the air or on the walls and ceiling. It’s exhilarating and it’s terrifying, but Siebren holds Harold tightly throughout the night, coaxing gravity with a wave of his hand. He tells Harold that he will keep him safe, and Harold believes him, if the warmth of Siebren's arms is anything to go by.

Siebren was never this affectionate before. Even when they were dating, it was Harold who usually made the first move. He knows the reason for this sudden change in Siebren’s behavior. Siebren is making up for lost time, gathering enough passionate kisses and tender touches to last him a lifetime. He’s savouring every moment until the day Harold leaves and they say their final goodbyes.

Harold’s long given up convincing Siebren to join him. Siebren is a proud, stubborn man, preferring to maintain the status quo if it means his goals are unhindered. He wants to stay in Oasis and continue his research. There are times when Siebren’s stoic mask cracks and Harold catches a glimpse at Siebren’s true feelings. But they’re lightning strikes, flashing brightly before fading away into the night. There are times where Harold thinks he should push a little harder, be a bit more demanding, but he doesn’t dare do anything if it means ruining the magic they share.

He’d rather just enjoy this moment of bliss, however long it lasts. 

Sombra is only too eager to help Harold reconnect with Winston, telling them both to wait exactly one week while she gets everything set up. The timing is important, she claims, but Harold does not know how or why timing needs to be considered. A part of him wants to see Winston now, just as desperately as the other part of him wishes time will stop so he can be with Siebren a little bit longer. The back of his brain itches insistently, wondering what Sombra’s motives are for helping him, but he cannot come up with any answers. Time marches onward, and soon the day arrives.

Harold is antsy as he awaits Siebren’s response. Siebren is the only one with any contact with Sombra, but he is off continuing his research in his shiny new lab. All Harold can do is stare at his phone and wait for the message. He paces the bedroom, his mind going over every possible interaction, every possible thing Winston can say to him and he can say back. Will he have changed with the passage of time, or will he be like Harold himself, stubbornly defiant, changed and unchanged at the same time?

The still air gives him no answer. He hopes perhaps the city might have something to say.

Oasis is a grand city, but there are few places meant for relaxing. There are restaurants and cafes, parks and playgrounds, but they are crowded, filled with young couples with children by their ankles. Not for the first time, Harold reminisces about his days on Horizon One, playing with the animals, chatting with his colleagues. He remembers the nights when he’d sneak Hammond and Winston into his room, and read them stories from the books he smuggled onto the lunar base. Hammond, being a hamster, was far more interested in his tiny little cage, but he remembered how Winston looked, utterly enraptured in the fantasy, the Earth glittering in his large eyes.

He remembers the picture of Winston he saw on the internet and his chest constricts, his lips dipping into a frown. He tries to remind himself of the absurdity of his emotions. Here he is, getting overly sentimental because he is going to reunite with the gorilla he raised in space.

_The son you raised in space_, his mind corrected.

He doesn’t attempt to convince himself otherwise. It's the truth and he knows it.

He’s strolling through market stalls when he sees a familiar face in the crowd. Satya Vaswani is alone, staring intently at the signs. Their eyes meet, and she cautiously makes her way towards him, avoiding the throngs of people marching up and down the street. Harold’s seen her a few times on the University campus but this is the first time she’s approached him since their tour on the first day. It’s also the first time he’s found her alone. Her bodyguards are nowhere to be seen today.

“I didn’t take you as someone who goes to markets, Dr. Winston,” she states.

“It’s Harold, and yeah, I love them. No better place to meet new people. Or acquaintances, for that matter.”

Satya nods shallowly, clutching her arms tightly over her body. “It is too crowded here. These streets are cluttered with people. I must mention this to Vishkar, so we might find a solution to this.”

He recognizes that look on Satya’s face. She masks it well, but he can see the anxiety leap out of her. His sister was also prone to anxiety attacks in crowds, back when she was younger. His parents would often take breaks in local restaurants or sit on nearby benches, places small enough for his sister to relax and catch her breath. Perhaps it might help Satya too.

His eyes scan the horizon, a gentle smile caresses his face. “There’s a small café just over there. Perhaps you’d like to join me for tea?”

She doesn’t respond with words, but her lips pull up into a tight smile that he thinks is gratitude, and slowly they head inside.

The café in question is moderately packed but there is little chatter. Iraqi music flows through speakers as diners sat on cheap wooden tables. Portraits of celebrities line one of the walls, many of them including the previous ministers from the Ministries. Funnily enough, he does not see Moira’s picture amongst them. Perhaps even the locals think she is controversial.

They take a seat in the corner, right next to the open windows.. A young waitress hands them their menus and waits patiently as they look through. Harold likes to think his mixed heritage gave him an advantage when it comes to food and languages, but even he is inept when it comes to Arabic. He eventually concedes defeat and copies Satya’s order for a chai.

Satya doesn’t talk, just drums her metallic fingers rhythmically into her right bicep as she stares outside to the streets. There’s a wistful expression on her face, memories of a distant youth dancing before her eyes. Harold doesn’t attempt to start conversation. There’s no need to. He lets his own mind drift away, recalling his Soon, they’re both given bright orange chai in tinted glass. Satya sips hers first. Her shoulders slowly relax.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asks.

“No reason,” Harold says. “Just know that it can be overstimulating in crowds for some. Humans aren’t designed to be so densely packed into one space.”

“So you do not have any ulterior motives.” Her eyes pierce through him.

Harold chuckles quietly. “I’m flattered you think I’m the type to go after a woman that’s old enough to be my kid, but I’m already in a relationship.”

“With Dr. de Kuiper, I assume?”

“That obvious?”

“Even I can see that the two of you are close. How close, I didn’t dare ask.” Her eyes stare at Harold’s ring finger. Her lips pull tight over her face. “Is there a stigma against marriage in your country or…?”

_A bit difficult to get married when I’m legally dead_, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Siebren and I are only dating. The relationship is…relatively new.”

“O-Oh. I see.” Her eyes flicker between his hands and his face, almost like she’s seeing him in a completely different light. A dark blush creeps up her cheeks. “Forgive me. It’s not my place to pry.”

Harold chuckles awkwardly. “It sounds a bit weird, but we’re happy.”

Satya stares at him for a few seconds. “But you don’t look happy.”

He glances down at the cup of chai in his hands and sighs quietly. “I know.”

Satya drinks her chai slowly, careful not to smudge her lipstick. When she sets her cup down, it is exactly on the center on the saucer. “I shall be leaving soon,” she says. "My work here in Oasis is finished."

“But Vishkar won the appeal. They are staying, aren’t they?”

“I must return to Vishkar’s HQ and prepare blueprints for the hardlight buildings that shall come. Any future correspondences between Vishkar and the Ministires will be through Sanjay Korpal, not I.”

Harold nods vacantly. “You must be happy Vishkar got the deal with Oasis.”

Satya hides a grimace. “I should be."

“Is the deal bad?"

“That is not it. It is the unrest as of late. The people have been disturbed ever since the attack on the university. This city, once orderly and peaceful, is now on the brink of chaos.” Satya takes a sip of her chai before adding, “I do not like chaos.”

Harold shrugs. “That’s why Vishkar is here, isn’t it? To promote peace and order?”

“It is, but the timing of the attacks. Just when we were at risk of losing the contract, the attacks occur, and suddenly our competitors seem insignificant. The timing is all too perfect.” Satya violently shakes her head. “But Vishkar would never do such a thing. The accusations against us are baseless.”

Harold studies Satya’s harrowed expression. He’s aware of Vishkar’s reputation. He’s aware of the things they have done in the past, of the things they will do to maintain the status quo and gain access to an untapped market. Corporations are ruthless, shedding employees off its back if it means it shall live. Harold has learnt this the hard way with Lucheng.

“Sometimes, chaos is necessary to cause change,” he says diplomatically. “With change comes peace.”

“How can anything be both chaos and order?” Satya accuses.

“Everything dissolves into entropy,” Harold says. “There is the people, and there is the corporation. Two sides of different views. No matter what happens, they are going to clash, and when they do, the world will be behind the people. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.”

“You sound like that ruffian,” Satya comments. Her eyes search his once again, just like that time when she first learned of his identity. Only this time there’s something else in her gaze. He doesn't know what it is, but it's sharp as a blade and dark as the night. “Why are you here?”

“There is no reason,” Harold says. “What about you?”

“I am here to preserve order.”

“The order that was already here for a long time? The order that was only disrupted when Vishkar arrived and decided to make this city their own?”

Satya stands up suddenly and slaps a bill on the table. “You do not know true order,” she says before stomping off, out of the café and out of sight.

Harold stays at his table and drinks his chai. He wonders what will happen to this city when he leaves. He hopes it's nothing too bad, if only to give him the small reassurance that Siebren shall be safe. That's all he can count on.

* * *

It’s just past 10pm when Sombra finally contacts them. On her orders, they blindly obey, heading inside of Oasis’s music library. It’s normally closed at this time of night, but the doors open for them anyway, closing with a swish as soon as they step inside. There is no light, and they’re specifically told not to turn on any lights or touch any electronics. They have to rely on their senses.

The music library is smaller, and much less kept compared to the other libraries, nestled in a deep labyrinth of underground tunnels underneath the smaller Biology laboratories. The disarray is probably a result of the internal feud within the Ministries over whether ‘music’ counts as a science. The feud apparently still exists today.

“She must be feeling nice,” Siebren says suddenly. “Sombra, that is. She’s not usually so kind.”

Harold can’t help but wonder once again what Sombra gets out of this. He heard from the Talon grapevine that she never does anything for free. But what could she possibly get out of reuniting him with Winston? Why does she have a link to Overwatch? How does she know Winston? What does she want?

As they get deeper and deeper into the library, the darkness becomes almost overwhelming, to the point where they can’t see their hands in front of their own faces. The back of Siebren’s head is the only light source, but even that is faint, casting just enough light to cast Siebren's backside a brilliant blue. Apart from that, it’s pitch black.

Siebren stops suddenly, as he almost collides with a desk. He hisses in annoyance. “I cannot see anything in this darkness.”

Harold suppresses a smirk as he takes Siebren’s hand. “Come on, tiger. I’ll lead the way.”

Siebren’s mouth open, as if to question how Harold can guide him, but stops when he sees Harold’s eyes glow, the tubes sticking out of his skin filling with golden liquid. Harold blinks, and it’s like everything he sees is brighter. He can make out the outlines of the desks, the rows upon rows of bookshelves full of old cassettes and CDs and DVDs.

It's a bit of a waste of his powers, but it's all worth it for that look in Siebren's eyes. "Come on," he says. He tugs Siebren forward, avoiding all the obstacles in their path.

“How can you do that?” Siebren asks, amazed.

“I have my ways,” Harold laughs.

“You don’t know," Siebren smirks knowingly.

Harold rolls his eyes. "Everybody knows there are off-target effects for genetic therapy. Mine just happen to be very good for finding the bathroom in the middle of the night."

On the last row of computers, they see their target. A lone computer sits beside a row of identical models. It’s the only one on, Sombra’s sugar skull icon glowing against the black backdrop. Siebren takes his seat, and with practiced ease, begins to type something. It doesn’t seem to register for a while, but then the skull icon is gone, and for a second the screen is black.

A single pop-up suddenly appears.

_Are you sure?_

_>Yes No_

Siebren turns to Harold. “No turning back, Harold. You want to do this?”

He nervously runs a hand through his hair. His nerves are on fire, and his mind is going through the worst case scenarios one by one. It’s not often that Harold feels afraid. The last time he felt anything remotely like this, it was during that Talon mission with Siebren, in the final few seconds before the bombs exploded where he thought that he might lose him forever. Though this fear is different, it still holds him by the throat, taunting him with all the ways he could fail and lose Winston's trust forever.

He’s afraid, and he’s worried, but despite all this there is conviction in his tone. He needs safety, but more than that, he wants to see Winston. He has to see him. 

“D-do it,” Harold whispers.

Siebren clicks ‘yes’ and the screen is blanketed in white. An innocuous looking streaming site appears. A large black window sits in the middle, a small video of their own faces near the bottom right. There’s the beeping sounds of a call being made. Harold leans forward peeking over Siebren's shoulder, his face just out of view. His eyes are flickering between the monitor and Siebren’s carefully blank face. His heart feels like it’ll leap out of his chest any second now.

The screen fills up as Winston stares angrily into the camera. A quiet gasp escapes Harold’s lips. He hasn’t changed one bit since he last saw him. He’s just as Harold remembered him.

“Who is this? How did you get—” Winston trails off. His eyes widen in shock. “It can’t be…Dr. de Kuiper? But…but how did you get this line?” Quieter, he adds, “How are you alive?”

“A bit of outside help told me how to get to this line,” Siebren smiles politely. “You’ve grown so much.”

“I…I can’t believe it. They said you went missing after your accident all those years ago.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been taking care of my mental health recently.” Siebren’s lips dip microscopically for a second before springing back up. “But I am better now. I trust you can make this our little secret.”

Winston quickly salutes. “N-not a problem, Dr. de Kuiper.”

Siebren chuckles politely. “Just call me Siebren.”

Winston smiles in embarrassment. “S-sure, Dr—I mean, Siebren. Heh. Force of habit.”

It’s the first time Harold remembers him calling himself Siebren since Harold was brought to Talon. He gazes at Siebren, wondering if perhaps Siebren is aware of the significance. The smiles he shares with Winston are awkward, but they are meaningful, filled with unspoken affection.

Harold watches as the two chat so easily, talking about their lives. Siebren is vague, talking about his current research and his stay in Oasis as a researcher in the Ministry of Physics, but Winston is far more open about his past, regaling the adventures he’s had and the friends he’s made, and of course the story of how he joined Overwatch. He tells Siebren that he’s currently living in an old Overwatch watchpoint in the south of Spain, and has been living by himself for some time. A part of Harold aches when he hears Winston call Overwatch his family. Harold remembered the day when baby Winston spoke his first word. _Papa_, he gurgled excitedly. _Family._ How he clutched his chest in love, dreaming of the day the experiment can be over so he can finally take Winston down to Earth and show him his roots and finally be the father they both wanted him to be.

“I had a wonderful Christmas with Lena and her girlfriend,” Winston continued. “If I knew you were around, I would have invited you.”

“Perhaps the next time then. You have not tried my family’s secret _gourmetten _recipe,” Siebren laughed. “We encountered your friend, actually, right here in Oasis. She seemed to recognize one of us.”

“We?” Winston questions.

Siebren turns his head to Harold and smirks. “You know him quite well. He’s right here with me.”

Siebren gestures Harold to come forward and let his presence be known. Harold takes a deep shuddery breath in and nods faintly. This is it. The moment of truth. Siebren steps away from the chair, letting Harold sit in it. He sees a miniature of his own face in a corner of the screen, washed in blue light, making him look pale.

Winston is staring at him in horror, like a ghost has resurrected from the grave. Tears begin to form in his eyes, but he turns his head away and pretends to clean his glasses. They’re an exact replica of his old glasses, Harold realizes, only bigger, created to fit a gorilla’s head. A replica of the glasses he left behind on Horizon One, when the gorillas forced him into the airlock.

“I-It can’t be,” Winston whispers.

Harold smiles tightly, his own tears streaming down his face. “It’s been so long, champ.”

“Dr. Winston?”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve become Winston now." In a whisper, he adds, “I’m so proud of you.”

Winston looks like he’s ready to cry then and there, but he violently shakes his head, his lips twisted in all manners of direction to stop his tears. “You can’t be real. You’re imposters. Dr. de Kuiper was declared missing. D-Dr. Winston died over a decade ago.”

“But I’m alive. Have been for a long time.” Harold gazes down at his shaking hands. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you. If I could, I would have tried to find you, tried to tell you. I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

“Y-you’re not him.”

“_X­­īng­__ā__nb__ǎ__ob__è__i_,” Harold sighed.

Winston chokes on his breath, his throat constricting tightly. Harold smiles sadly as his eyes go cloudy.

“Remember when I used to call you that? Back on Horizon One? The first time I called you that, I was tucking you into bed one night, and you didn’t want me to go. I read you a bedtime story from my homeland, the very one my own mother told me to go to sleep when I was a kid.”

“_Hou Yi_ and _Chang’e_,” Winston breathes. His lips suddenly springs into a bittersweet smile. “I asked you what that word meant, when I first learned how to talk. You got so embarrassed, and I didn’t know why. It was only years later when my friend Mei told me.”

“Only parents say that to their children,” Harold replies.

Winston nods. “She told me it’s rather old-fashioned.”

“Yes, well, mama never told me it was old-fashioned,” Harold chuckles.

Awkward smiles are shared amidst the two, a cover for them to wipe the tears from their eyes. Harold wonders if this is what it feels like to be a parent, to see the child Winston used to be whenever he gazes into Winston’s eyes. His heart swells with pride and happiness. 

“It is you,” Winston says finally, a whisper that can barely be heard over the cheap speakers. “I…I knew you were alive. When they didn’t recover your body, I hoped you would be alive. They said to expect the worst, but I didn’t want to give up hope. A-and now you’re here.”

Harold suddenly wishes he is by Winston’s side so he can embrace him in his arms and finally let the tears spill down both their cheeks. But they are worlds apart, and he needs to fulfill the purpose of this call. He can’t let this opportunity go to waste. “I’d love to tell you more, but I need your help.”

“My help?”

Harold nods. “Very few people know I’m alive, and a lot of people want me dead. The attack in Oasis University? That was Lucheng Interstellar's job, and they are after me.”

Winston’s eyes widen in horror. “Y-you? Why are they after you?”

“My research. My secrets.” After a pause, Harold adds, “I know the real reason they’re putting resources into re-establishing contact with Horizon One. They want the research I left behind there.”

“B-but why would they want your research?”

“Why do you think I’m still alive?”

Harold sees Winston’s gaze lower on his screen, away from Harold’s face to the tubes sticking out of his neck. Winston lets his fingers trace over the metal plate on his forehead, nodding in grim understanding. He would know exactly what the genetic treatment can do.

“I heard you’re rebuilding Overwatch,” Harold continues. “I don’t know if this is anything like the old Overwatch. I don’t know if you will even want an old scientist like me, but people want me dead, and I need a place to hide.”

Winston’s lips purse. “D-Dr. Winston…”

“I-I don’t expect you to help me if you don’t want to,” Harold adds quickly. His hands are trembling on his lap. “I understand if you…don’t want to see me again.”

“N-no, wait. Y-you can come here."

Harold stares at Winston’s image for a few seconds. It takes a few seconds for the words to register. He was prepared to plead, to beg for help. “W-what?”

Winston pushes the glasses higher up his face with a trembling hand. “L-Lena is going to leave Oasis in a few days time and come here to Gibraltar. I’ll notify her what’s happening. She can take you here on her airship. There’s no place safer.”

“But…but is that OK?”

“If what you’re saying is true, then there is something nefarious at work here.” Quieter, Winston adds, “I want to see you again.”

Harold stares into Winston’s eyes and sees the memories of his childhood flicker behind sunflower irises. He sees the moon and he sees the Earth, and they’re beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to the golden halo that surrounds Harold’s past self, smiling with the warm intensity of the sun. An image of a loving father.

“I’d love to see you too, champ. You’re my kid.”

Harold can feel the tears stain his cheeks, a thin smile spread across his face. There’s a slight pressure on his shoulder, a hand rubbing gently. He looks up to see Siebren, his expression soft and sad at the same time. Harold places his hand over Siebren’s, patting softly. 

“I suppose you will be going soon,” Siebren utters.

“Yeah,” Harold whispers. “I’ll have to tell Talon I’m leaving.”

“Moira will not be happy to hear this.”

Winston’s face falls. “T-Talon?”

Harold tilts his head. “What’s wrong with Talon?”

There’s the briefest flicker in Winston’s eyes, and suddenly he’s typing away madly on his keyboard. In the reflection of Winston’s glasses, Harold sees article upon article fly across the screen, too fast for the human brain to process. He can only catch glimpses of words: ‘terrorist’ and ‘classified archives’ and ‘Doomfist’ and ‘Omnic Crisis’. Eventually Winston stops typing. A single article is beamed up on the screen. It’s an Overwatch classified document, detailing the rise of Talon, its shady dealings, the genocides they have committed, the destruction they brought to countless countries. Suspected members include Akande Ogundimu and Dr. Moira O’Deorain.

More articles pop up on their screen, showing more crimes. Kidnappings and assassinations and extortion, among others. Harold stares at them all, taking as much of it in. The hand on his shoulder tightens so much it hurts. The furniture rattles.

“No…” Siebren gasps.

“Talon is an organization of terrorists hellbent on bringing the next evolution of humanity by chaos," Winston growls. "They want to bring about hard times to create strong men, and they will use whatever methods they have in their books to do it.”

“This cannot be real, this cannot be real," Siebren moans.

Winston’s typing furiously. “I’m contacting Lena now. You have to get out of Oasis. Get to Gibral—”

The screen glitches heavily before suddenly turning off. Harold frantically taps at the computer, pressing every button he can think of to turn it back on.

“Winston? Winston!”

The lights in the room flicker on. Thunderous footsteps echo throughout the library, coming from all directions. Harold rises from his seat, gaping at the battalion of armoured troops pointing their weapons at him and Sigma. The room trembles as Sigma flies up into the air, his hands outstretched as he shoots the hyperspheres from his palm, his skull glowing blue. A squad of troops are shoved to the wall, weapons clacking harmlessly onto the ground. He pins another wave to the wall, then another, but they continue to approach. The hyperspheres does little to deter them.

There’s the whirr of a gun as a blue ball of energy hits Sigma square in the chest. He falls to the ground, taking in a raspy breath. The furniture drops to the floor with a thud. The light at the back of his skull fades.

The wielder of the weapon is wearing a blue dress and visor, but it does little to disguise her identity. Satya frowns deeply, her brows furrowed in conflict as she points her weapon at Siebren. Behind her stands Moira and Dr. Tempest Williams, flanked on all sides by numerous guards.

“He’s not down yet. Again,” Moira orders.

Satya grimaces as she squeezes the trigger. Another energy ball hits Siebren, making him howl in pain. He convulses madly, spasming on the floor before his eyelids finally flutter closed, limbs hanging limply on the ground.

The soldiers close in on Harold. Satya stares forlornly while Moira is emotionless but all Harold can see is Siebren’s body on the floor. Burn marks have ripped through his clothes, crackling his stomach, making him look fragile and old and broken.

Harold doesn’t feel fear. He doesn’t feel sorrow. As the golden light in his veins consumes him, all he sees is Siebren's unconscious body and his lips twist into a vicious snarl. The blinding rage threatens to consume him, burning him from the inside out.

The only thing he hears is the blood filling his ears, and then a single gunshot aimed for his chest. His wild eyes stare at the guards as the bullet gets absorbed by the nanobots. His eyes are aglow as lightning fills his body, a guttural, visceral growl escaping his throat. 

He charges at the guards, punching and kicking and screaming, faster than lightning, stronger than gravity, utterly invincible. The guards desperately spray him with bullets but the nanobots absorb them all. They cannot touch him. No one will ever touch him and Siebren again.

One of the guards tackles him to the ground from behind, and Harold struggles. He turns around and reaches for the gun, ripping it out of his grasp before kicking him away.

He stands up and backs away, wincing as his back hits a bookshelf. His eyes are wild as he tries to find a place to go, a place to escape, but there's nothing. He's surrounded by all sides. He's trapped. 

Moira approaches him slowly, her expression carefully neutral. “Put the gun down, Dr. Winston.”

Harold fumbles with the safety. He’s not used to this gun at all, or any gun for that matter, but he can handle the weight of the weapon in his hands. For Siebren and Winston, he will risk his life, he knows that. But does that mean he can take someone else's life? Is he really that selfish?

Moira smiles sinisterly. “You don’t want to kill,” she says. She stretches her hand towards him, coaxing him to give her the gun. “You don’t want to dirty your hands, do you?”

Harold hesitates, his breath catching in his throat. He stares at the cruel grimace on Tempest's face and is brutally reminded of his decision to save her. His friends would argue it was courage to keep her alive, but he knows what his actions truly meant. _Stupid coward_, he scolds himself. _You stupid, stupid coward._

On the dark computer screens, he sees the glint of a knife inches from his back. Before Harold is aware of what he's doing, his body has already turned around and pulled the trigger. Tempest stands there, the knife falling from her hands, mouth agape and filled with blood as she crumbles to the floor in a pool of her own blood. The scent of death fills the room quickly.

It doesn’t compute in his mind what he just did. At this betrayal, he fires the weapon blindly, killing more of the guards. When it runs out of ammo, he charges like a berserker, smashing skulls together and throwing people to the ground. There's no restraint or control in his actions, no remorse or hesitation. Bloodlust has consumed him, and it won't go away until he avenges Siebren and kills everyone in this room. 

Suddenly there’s a cold chill in his body and his actions slow. Moira stretches out her right hand, dark tendrils sapping the energy away from his body, making his skin shrivel and shrink like a corpse. The golden light dissipates, his strength leaving him. Everything seems to be fading away. The guards take their chance, tackling him to the ground, securing all of his limbs so that he may not move again. 

The dark tendrils continue their assault, taking away his life essence. He thrashes and he struggles, but it's no use. Moira stands above him, a wicked smile spreading across her face. 

"Your power. It's so much better than Sigma's. The things I can do with your powers. It must be studied." Her lips curl up into a smirk. "Perhaps you can be of some use after all."

Satya approaches him, her lips pursed tight. “I am sorry,” she mouths.

He can't open his mouth to respond. The light threatens to blind him and his breaths are weak. The last thing he sees before he goes under is a hollow emptiness, an unwelcome reminder that he has failed Siebren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ I'd like to say sorry for ending on a cliffhanger. But I'm not. Because the next chapter will be juicy and angsty, I can assure you. But also yes, they're alive. Don't worry XD_


	9. Deja Vu

Sigma wakes up in a padded room with a solitary door and no windows. The only light is from the single lamp above his head. The room is tiny, a square box that will barely fit his body if he were to lay on the ground, except he’s not lying on the ground. He’s chained to a wall, shackles made of metal and electronics enclosed around his wrists and ankles, their discordant tune the only noise that can be heard amidst the unsetting quiet.

He screams and yells, desperate to break free, but as soon as he attempts to bend gravity to his will, the shackles light up and pain shoots through his body. The door is made of the strongest steel, no other furniture in sight for him to manipulate. He tries to make the hyperspheres ricochet and hit his shackles, but all it does is shoot electricity up through his spine and shriek until he can taste copper in his mouth. Gravity is no longer his to harness.

No one will hear his screams. This room, the shackles on his limbs, the desolate loneliness, it’s utterly familiar in all the wrong ways. The pieces of his mind threaten to crack, exposing the glue that’s kept them together all this time. It’s taken him a long time to collect all the pieces. If he loses himself this time, he’s not sure he will be able to find himself again.

So he tries to go through his mental exercises. Craft songs, remember equations, embrace the universe and the beyond. Don’t think about the shackles digging into his skin and the sandpaper texture of his dry tongue. Don’t think about what they’re doing to Harold. Don’t think about Harold. Don’t think about Harold.

Tears drip down onto the padded cushion floor before he suddenly grits his teeth. “Hold it together,” he rasps to himself, a desperate attempt to keep his emotions in check. “Y-you have to hold it together.”

But it’s no use. He remembers the way Harold hung limply in his arms after the last Talon mission like a corpse. He remembers the angry reprimanding Harold gave him after the Tempest attack, when he almost lost himself to the violence. He remembers the tenderness in Harold’s touch as they finally gave in to each other, succumbing to the will of the universe. He sobs loudly, staining the floors with his tears until his eyes are red and he’s too tired to cry. Sigma falls into a restless, dreamless sleep that lasts far too long and ends far too quickly.

A distinct metal clang wakes him from his slumber. Lethargically, he raises his head as the heavy bolts of the door slowly screw open, revealing a single person flanked by bodyguards. It’s not Moira, it’s not Satya, it’s not even the ghost of Dr. Tempest Williams. Instead, it’s a distinctly male figure, dressed up in a clean suit of purples and whites. The colours of Vishkar.

Sanjay Korpal smiles in a friendly manner, like he’s meeting with a business partner. His arms are behind his back when the door opens, though he flashes his hands up to reveal that they are empty.

“You know, it is such a pity you are kept like this,” Sanjay says without a hint of irony or cruelty. “Like a chained, rabid animal. You shouldn’t be kept like this, you are a human being. You are a scientist.”

“I am _not _a scientist,” Sigma growls, straining against his restraints. A bolt of electricity goes through him. He howls in agony.

Sanjay frowns. “No, I suppose not. You are better than that. You have done the impossible. You have created a micro black hole. You have harnessed gravity. Your research alone has given us the ability to live on the moon. You are more than a scientist.” His dark eyes flicker. “But a scientist is ultimately what Dr. Winston is, no?”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HAROLD?” He yells.

“Me? I did nothing. But my associates—or should I say _our _associates—they are keeping him safe. But not for long.”

“If you _dare _touch a hair on his head—”

“You are not in a position to bargain,” Sanjay sneers, his true colours flashing for just a second before he composes himself. “But perhaps we can come to a deal. You have something we want. And it seems we have something you want.”

Sigma stares into Sanjay’s face for several seconds. Eventually his head drops, defeated. Sanjay sees this as a sign to continue.

“We can keep Dr. Winston alive. No one will touch him. No one will do anything unless he asks. He’ll live the rest of his natural life without fear or worry. But I’ll only do this if you give me the truth. You just have to tell us what we need to hear. Is that clear?”

Sigma scowls but Sanjay shoots him a dangerous look. With a grunt, he slowly nods his head.

“Good,” Sanjay smiles. “Now, I assume you are aware of Dr. Winston’s research?”

“Metabonomic studies of microgravity on HeLa cells,” Sigma rattles from memory. He feels the need to explain himself but he successfully quells it. Sanjay does not deserve an explanation.

“I mean his _real _research.”

Sigma’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Now don’t give me that, we all know that’s not entirely true. You surely must know.”

“_Met de deur in huis vallen_,” Sigma snapped. “Get to the point.”

“The genetic therapy he administered. The nanobots. Did you really think a man like him would inject it into his systems and forget about it? I’ve heard he’d been continuing his research, experimenting on them, perfecting them.” Sanjay’s smile turns insincere. “The nanobots are respirocytes, aren’t they?”

Sigma’s eyes widen. He remembered Harold talking about them long ago, back when they were both working on Horizon One. They were swapping stories about how they were invited to work with Lucheng Interstellar on the Horizon project. He said that he had developed the gravitational device that allowed for Earth-level gravity on the lunar base. Harold said his team had developed the respirocytes and modified them for space travel. All of the gorillas had been injected with them, to be carefully monitored over the coming years. He never pretended to understand medical nanotechnology, but Harold’s face lit up like the stars when he spoke of his research. In the present, Sigma feels a gnawing, foreboding ache in his chest.

“I did my research on them,” Sanjay continues. “Artificial red blood cells that can absorb nitrogen and carry 2000 times more oxygen than normal. Motion sickness will be eliminated. Fluctuating gravitational pressures will have no ill effect. In one breath, you could breathe for up to four hours. They’ve existed as a concept for a hundred years until Dr. Winston figured out how to create them. That’s what he gave the gorillas, didn’t he? That’s how he survived.”

Sigma turned his head away. “I don’t know anything about the nanobots.”

“Don’t lie to me. Or do you really not care for your friend’s life?”

“I’m telling you the truth. I am an astrophysicist. Nanorobotics is outside of my field. Harold didn’t mention anything to me about how they work.”

Sanjay takes a few seconds to stare at Sigma before his eyes shift in colour, revealing their electronic origins. His irises widen, a tiny red laser staring into Sigma’s soul before he blinks, and his eyes return to normal. Sanjay frowns. “You really do not know. What a shame.”

A cold sweat runs down Sigma’s back. The dark whispers return, showing them the invisible notes that connects his body to Sanjay’s, thin and brittle, ready to snap.

“Why…” Sigma gulps, “…why are you asking me about Harold? Why don’t you talk to him yourself?”

“He’s a bit incapacitated at the moment. Probably will be for a long while now.”

Sigma can feel his throat constrict tightly as every horrible possibility flickers through his mind. “W-what did you do to him?” He rasps.

“Nanobots are an awfully tricky thing to take out of a body. We had to take a lot of blood out, but if we can figure out the secret of the nanobot’s function, anybody can become invincible. But Dr. O'deorain thinks we can go further than that. What if they can pass the blood brain barrier? What if we are able to control a person’s body through these nanobots? To control both the mind and the body of a single person, to make the ultimate soldier, a living weapon far stronger than even you. Exactly the thing we need to continue Talon’s plans.”

Sigma thrashes against his restraints, trying to pull his limbs free. Searing pain shoots up his body, making his eyes water in agony, but he has to escape, if only to get his hands around Sanjay’s neck and squeeze tightly. If only so he will feel Harold’s pain.

“I’ll admit, I was always curious if you would ever replicate your accident and remake the black hole. It would have been a very powerful tool, but Dr. Winston has something that can beat even gravity.”

One of the bodyguards hands Sanjay a strange looking weapon, identical to the one Satya used. Casually he flicks through the settings, stopping at the one that says ‘kill’. Sigma can hear the wails of the universe ringing in his ears, shrill violins shrieking to the beat of his heart. He tries to fight, but the bonds remain true. Without his powers he’s weak and old. He closes his eyes and is reminded of the utter insignificance of his life in the grand schemes of the cruel, dark universe.

“You have outlived your usefulness, Sigma,” Sanjay utters.

“Not so fast,” a womanly voice chirps.

It all happens too fast for Sigma to comprehend. One second he’s staring into the glowing vortex of a ball of pure hardlight, the next there are incapacitated bodies by his feet. Tracer stomps her foot on the weapon, but it doesn’t break. With a roll of her eyes, she whips out her pulse pistols, making it explode into smithereens.

Their gazes connect for a second. It’s lightning fast, but Sigma thinks he sees the curl of a bittersweet smile. Then, she’s zipping towards him in a trail of blue lightning, undoing his restraints one by one. He drops to the floor, rubbing his sore wrists and aching back. He hears the soft discordant chords of the universe as his powers return. He's floating once more.

“Sorry I’m late, but we gotta get going, Doc,” Tracer says.

He can only stare at her wide-eyed, a million questions buzzing through his mind. His voice could only speak a few into existence. “Why…why did you save me? How did you find me?”

“Winston gave me the heads up,” she says. “As for the latter question, well, I got some help.”

From behind the doorway, Satya appears, still wearing her cyan dress. Her lips are pressed tight and her brows are permanently furrowed in shame. She does not look at him as she hands him a pair of very familiar gauntlets, confiscated from his person between the library attack and when he first awoke. He slips them on one at a time, flexing his fingers. They are heavy and unwieldy, but with the help of gravity, he adjusts their weight. With a wave of his wrist, the experimental barrier flickers in and out of existence.

“That is Vishkar technology,” Satya says quietly, staring at the gauntlets. “I helped developed the first prototype for the barrier a long time ago, before they streamlined it for civilian use. I recognized them when we first met, but they told me I was mistaken, that it was merely a coincidence. And I believed them, I believed everything they told me until they said you were a criminal, bent on spreading chaos. They wanted me to kill you, but I showed you mercy.” She shakes her head as she stares at her feet. “What a fool I was to believe such lies.”

She doesn’t say any more than that. Sigma suspects it’s her form of an apology, and her presence is her way to atone for her mistakes, but he does not dare say anything. Maybe later, when they are safe, when they are out of this wretched place.

“Sym’s got a teleporter,” Tracer says. “We gotta get going now.”

“But what about Harold?” Sigma asks.

“He is deep within the facilities,” Satya replies. “We have less than a minute to get out of here before the alarm sounds. Time is of the essence.” She flashes him a sorrowful look.

A wave of panic fills his lungs. “I cannot abandon him.”

“We will rescue him another day, but it is not this day.”

“I will not go without him.”

“If you try to rescue him now, you will die.”

“Then I will die trying!” He shouts.

Satya opens her mouth to disagree, but she’s interrupted by the sounds of numerous alarms going off. The hallway outside is tainted in spinning red lights. A small squadron of guards approach the entrance but Sigma raises a chunk of the floor with his powers and slams it into them in one fell swoop. They all fall unconscious, weapons rattling harmlessly on the floor.

Satya frowns. “We have missed our opportunity for escape.”

“No worries, love,” Tracer places a hand on Satya’s hand before zipping forward. “Guess we go for plan B now," she winks at him. Sigma nods, summoning the hyperspheres in his hand.

He follows Tracer as she sprints forward, dispatching waves of guards in their way. A part of him wonders if Satya will join him or not but he hears the melodic click of heeled boots on the tiled floors as Satya follows shortly behind, zapping at any who dare flank them from behind. The hallways are cramped and tiny, and there are no identifying markers to orient him, but with the flashing red lights and the sounds of gunfire, it reminds him all too much of the government facility he escaped from years ago.

It’s all cyclical, isn’t it? The people who save him eventually become his captors. First with the people who rescued him from the ISS, and now Talon. Who’s to say Tracer and Satya won’t betray him in the future?

He grits his teeth as the voices get louder in his head, heightened by the vivid images of his previous escape filtering into his head. The longer he takes to find Harold, the more lives he is forced to take. The more lives he takes, the more he risks losing himself to the violence. He doesn’t want to succumb, not if it means losing his mind. Not if it means Harold will look at him with such horror and anger.

They race through, bodies left in their wake, until Tracer stops at a door. There’s a tiny window, showing that it has been barricaded from the other side. With a grunt, Sigma raises his hands, the door flying off its hinges, shoving the barricaded objects out of the way. He forces his way through before Tracer has a chance to react.

It’s not a room, Sigma realizes, but a wing to another area. In front of him are dozens of medical beds, all with state of the art medical equipment by their side. They are all empty except for one, where a mixture of doctors and guards stand watch. They all train their weapons on him, but he doesn’t react. His eyes are on the figure lying on the bed, strapped in tightly so they cannot escape.

“Harold!”

It’s not a man lying on that bed but a corpse, Sigma can’t help but think. Harold’s skin is shriveled and pale, dark blood vessels staining his face and arms. There are even more wires and tubes on his person connected to the machines at his bedside. They’re pumping golden liquid away from his body, taking away his life essence. The worst thing about it is Harold is alive and he is conscious. His raspy breaths can be heard as he takes in desperate breath after breath. His closed eyes open microscopically, blinking weakly against the harsh light, dark irises staring back into Siebren’s blue.

From the other two hallways more soldiers shuffle in, guns focused on the trio. He feels Tracer and Satya press close to his back, weapons on the ready.

“We’re surrounded,” Tracer says, her peppy tone faltering.

Satya is mumbling something in Hindi, her fingers weaving intricate patterns of hard light. Turrets surround their feet, keeping back any who attempt to come close. “We cannot hold them off for long,” Satya states.

Shakily, Harold slowly raises his hand off his side. It jitters with every movement as he points it to the machines at his bedside. His voice is a harsh croak, inaudible over the alarms and the shouts and the universe’s whispers, but Sigma can just make out the words. “Injector…health…light…”

In the corner of his eye Sigma spies Harold’s jet injector, a cannister of golden liquid still inside. The universe croons their message into his ears as time slows down. For once, Sigma understands what it is trying to tell him. _Release me_, it croons. _Let me be free, and I shall give you the power to save him. Give up your body and soul and they shall be safe._

Sigma doesn't hesitate as he allows the universe’s song to flow through him. Melodies and chords rise within his body as everyone begins to float in the air. In that moment it is like he has perfect pitch, able to pinpoint the discordant notes and adjust them to his liking. With a wave of his hand he finetunes the backing instruments, rewrites the chorus, adds in the screams of shock and terror around him. The music gets louder, building up and up until it has reached its peak.

Sigma sees the horror in everybody’s expression as they clasp their hands over their ears and knows in that fleeting moment that everyone can hear the universe’s melody. In an instant, beautiful yet destructive, the black hole that destroyed his life appears in his hands once again.

_Nothing will ever be the same_, his younger self echoes in his mind, the last words to come out of his mouth before Siebren de Kuiper vanished from the Earth and Sigma rose to take his place.

Everything is pulled into the black hole. The beds, the machines, the people, they are sucked in one by one, making the black hole grow bigger and bigger for everything bit of matter it consumes. Tracer and Satya hold onto the doors and walls as they desperately stop themselves from getting sucked in. Harold can only struggle wildly as he tries to escape his bonds. Sigma himself is unaffected. He is the conductor, the composer, and the performer all at once. Math and music have melded together until they are one and the same. Chords are equations, lyrics are numbers. He weaves them together, until they are at perfect harmony.

All of the weapons and guards have been sucked in to the black hole, but it continues to grow. The machines connected to Harold’s body strain as they tug at his limbs before disconnecting with a vicious pop, spiraling into the black hole. He gasps loudly, scrambling to cut himself loose from his bindings. Tracer blinks forward, desperate to help, but the bed moves beneath their feet, slowly pulling them both in.

“Doc!” Tracer screams.

Sigma can’t hear her. The black hole is growing massively out of control, taking up most of the room. At this rate it will become bigger than the building itself but the universe wants more. Its appetite is endless. It won’t be satisfied until everything is consumed.

Tracer frees Harold from his bindings. He weakly grasps at the jet injector before it can be sucked in, fingers barely enclosing around the handle. He aims it at his arm and squeezes the trigger. In an instant, his skin returning to normal, his eyes aglow. Bathed in radiant light, he looks like a god, or an alien. An entity that does not come from Earth.

Satya has conjured handholds out of hardlight but she is slipping. “I cannot hold on!”

“Sym!”

The black hole wants to consume Sigma. It wants him. He is the one that released it from its confines, and it will gift him every single desire he wants as reward if he lets himself get consumed by it completely. It tells him its tantalizing secrets, of the multiverse and the holistic strings that attach everything to everyone, of every possible way gravity can be unshackled and be his to command as he pleases. It wants him, and for a price it shall reward him with treasures beyond human perception. He just has to submit fully to the universe and let himself get sucked in past the event horizon and join the other lives that have succumbed to the nothingness. The offer is beyond tempting.

“Siebren!” Harold shouts.

Just like that, the world comes crashing down on Sigma’s shoulders. Clarity returns, and in that moment he now sees the black hole for the horrible monstrosity it truly is. He tries to wave it away, but it’s too late. It continues to grow. The song goes on. He’s no longer the conductor. The black hole is no longer his to harness.

“Siebren!”

“I-I can’t make it stop!”

The black hole bubbles out of control, losing its shape, unable to maintain its form. Like the dying moments of a star before a supernova, it’s gorgeous and tragic all the same as it jitters violently, expanding and contracting, emitting waves of radiation that threaten to burn his skin. Sigma can do nothing but watch. It shrinks so small it can no longer be visible before a blast of searing hot energy ripples through his body.

Suddenly there’s a blinding light that engulfs the room, warm and safe, and then the music stops. The black hole fades away, leaving behind only rubble. The entire room has collapsed, the heat burning the furniture and walls to ash, leaving no trace of their existence. A path to the outside has been unveiled past the billowing smoke clouds, showing the lush evergreen grass and the purple skies dancing amidst the setting sun. He shouldn’t be alive, but he is. When the smoke fades away, he sees that the four of them are all safe.

Harold gasps as his glowing eyes fade back into darkness. He collapses on the floor, the golden light retreating back into his body, his skin slowly regaining colour. Sigma approaches him carefully, kneeling down to press a hand on his shoulder. Harold’s lips press into a tired, thin-lipped smile.

“Never…do that…again…” Harold says in between breaths.

Tears sting Sigma’s eyes, a bittersweet smile growing on his face as he presses a chaste kiss to Harold’s lips. Dark eyes widen for just a second before he leans forward, kissing back. It lasts only a second, too fleeting to truly appreciate the moment, but it’s enough to remind him that they are alive and they are together.

“You saved me,” Sigma whispers.

“You saved me,” Harold counters. His nose crinkles in mock disgust but his lips pull into a smirk. “You stink.”

“And you look horrible." His hands rub tenderly over Harold's arms, sweeping away the soot and grime.

Tracer approaches them with the widest grin. “Adorable as this is, Air Tracer’s back online and the next flight is now! We gotta get out of here.”

“Perhaps now you shall take my teleporter,” Satya quips, her fingers making intricate patterns once again as the teleporter base blossoms by her feet. Her tone is still sharp, but her lips curl up into a sly almost-smile. It’s her first joke, and it will also probably be her last.

Tracer leads the four of them away from the wreckage and up to a helipad near an abandoned port. Her airship does not look all that different from the others, but as she preps it and goes through the motions with methodic familiarity, its true power begins to reveal itself. There’s no one around that night. The cold evening wind bellows beneath Sigma’s feet, and for once in his life he curses not having shoes on. Harold wraps an arm around his waist, pretending to shiver when really he is just looking for an excuse to hold Sigma close. Sigma in turn wraps his arm around Harold's shoulder, pulling him closer.

The main doors slowly open, sliding down to create a ramp. The interior is lightly furnished with bolted chairs and a mini-basketball hoop and it’s all very homely unlike the stark bleakness of the Talon airships. Harold is the first to step in, a robotic noise whirring softly.

“Welcome, Dr. Harold Winston,” the voice chimes.

“That’s Athena,” Tracers calls from the cockpit. “Overwatch AI. A lovely gal, really. You’ll like her.”

Harold rubs the back of his head sheepishly, gazing up to stare at the many cameras. “Can you call me Harold instead?”

“Certainly,” Athena replies. “Would you prefer I call you by different pronouns as well?”

“No, that’s fine.”

Harold makes himself comfortable on the plush cushions, settling in quickly. It takes him a few moments before he notices that neither Sigma nor Satya have joined him.

“Come on, Sym,” Tracer calls out. “Get in. You’re part of us now.”

Satya pauses for a few seconds, unfurling her fist right in front of her. In her hand is a small blank card half the size of her palm, the Overwatch symbol crudely painted in marker pen alongside Tracer’s real name. The item Tracer handed her earlier, Sigma realizes.

“I cannot join you,” Satya whispers. “I have betrayed you all. I have betrayed Vishkar. I see now that it is my very presence that brings about such disorder.”

Tracer hops away from the controls and blinks over. Her smile is tight but genuine as she glances down at the card. “You know why I gave that to you?”

“You want to recruit me.”

Tracer nods. “The world needs more heroes, now more than ever.”

“And you think I have the makings to be a hero?” Satya says incredulously.

“Everybody has the potential,” Tracer says. “It’s just a matter of choosing to take action. Just have to take that first step.”

The words are clearly meant for Satya but it resonates deep within Sigma. Like a gong has been sounded within his chest, spreading vibrations down his body. Harold stares at him without a word. They don’t need words or actions anymore to communicate. Just the silent transmission of their thoughts through a simple glance.

He wants to tell Harold his darkest fears. He wants to tell Harold that he’s dangerous, that he’s one step away from losing him to the universe’s destructive desires. For as long as he’s kept his fragile mind together, he knows he is a living weapon, waiting for someone to pull the trigger and detonate the world and realise Talon’s awful desires. But now he realizes that he’s not the only one. Harold’s abilities are just as powerful, if not more so. In the wrong hands, Harold can be far more dangerous than Sigma ever will be. Talon seems to agree, if Sanjay Korpal is to be believed.

For as long as Harold has been by his side again, Sigma thought he will only bring Harold pain and death. He still thinks it now, but perhaps together, with their combined talents and abilities, something new can be synthesized. A new substance that turns the pain and sorrow into something happier, more peaceful. A chemical bond that can not be broken by anything. Not even gravity.

The first step is the hardest, but it is also the most rewarding when he finally enters the craft and sees Harold smile warmly at him, relief and joy caressing his cheeks. He sits down next to him, trying and failing to hide a bashful smile. A few seconds later, heels click on the hard floor as Satya takes a seat opposite them, also failing to hide an anxious smile of her own.

Tracer blinks back up to the cockpit, starts the engine, and within minutes they are rising from the ground. Oasis gets smaller and smaller until the people can no longer be seen, and the buildings are just a bunch of shapes sticking out of the desert. Sometime during their ascent Harold leans his head over Sigma’s shoulder. Under the table, he reaches for Sigma’s hand, entwining their fingers together. His eyes close, his expression almost peaceful.

It’s absolutely obvious what he’s doing, to the point that Satya hides a quiet chuckle behind her hand, but Sigma pays her little heed. He leans his head on top of Harold’s and lets his own eyes drift closed. All of a sudden he’s painfully aware of the weight of the world on his shoulders, leaving him fatigued and sore.

“Next stop: Watchpoint Gibraltar,” Athena announces over the speakers.

“Next stop: Winston,” Harold murmurs under his breath, voice crackling with sleep.

The circumstances of their escape are far too similar to when Talon broke him out of the government facility. A small group of three, saving him from capture when he doesn't deserve it, saving him even though they know exactly what he's capable of. Even now Sigma has his concerns about Overwatch, if they will betray him like so many others have betrayed him. But there is one thing different this time. Harold is by his side, tired and broken but safe. He is absolutely sure that Harold will never betray him. 


	10. I need a hero

Once upon a time, Harold got a job offer at Overwatch. Back in its prime, they had been interested in his work on respirocytes. But Lucheng Interstellar gave him a better job, and the position was filled by someone else, though he still kept in contact just in case they still had a job for him when the Lunar Ops program was finished. In another life, he might have found a cushy job as a researcher with Overwatch, traveling the world, perhaps with Winston by his side. In another life, he might have proposed to Siebren, or even married him outright, and Winston will be with them, and the three of them will live together in a comfy home of their own. But life, or perhaps the universe, had other plans.

He doesn’t know why that’s the first thought to filter into his head when he exits the airship and takes in the sprawling Overwatch base. Buildings are carved into the rock, obscuring it from sight. Night time has fallen, making the base look desolate and abandoned, but as Tracer leads them through, he sees the slow trickle of life and habitation. An offering near the cliffside to a deity, leftover Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters, tracks on the gravel made from footsteps and tires.

Tracer is a far more eager guide compared to Satya, even if she often diverts on irrelevant tangents. She talks about the history of the place, her own past in this very base, as well as some humerous anecdotes about the other Overwatch agents. Every now and then she points out buildings that she thinks are important to note. The hangers where everybody’s rooms shall be, the communal kitchen, the washhouse with the ‘nice showers’, and of course Winston’s lab. Whenever she mentions Winston, she makes a point of glancing back to Harold with a knowing little smirk. She’s looking for a reaction. Harold has absolutely no idea if he’s giving the right one or not.

Satya is quiet at the back of the group, keen eyes taking careful notes of every little detail. She speaks up only to clarify on Tracer’s ramblings, confirming directions and instructions for her stay here. Sometime during the flight she’s somewhat accepted that she is now in need of refuge. Whether she wants to be a hero, that’s another thing entirely.

Siebren doesn’t speak at all during the tour. His gaze is up to the moon. Harold can’t help but let his eyes drift up to the celestial body hanging in the sky. The sky is clear and the light pollution is minimal, but the sparkling stars don’t hold a candle to the light of the moon. A wash of confusing emotions bubbles up to the surface as he stares at the lunar surface, gazing upon the lunar craters and moutains, many of which he’d personally explored.

“Do you miss it? The moon?” Siebren asks quietly when Tracer’s not paying attention.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t. It’s always up there, lighting the night sky. A reminder of my mistakes.”

Siebren frowns. “It’s not your fault, what happened. Your colleagues were idiots.”

“Sure. So am I.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Siebren says softly before straightening his posture. “You’re incredibly reckless. Nagging. Inappropriate at the worst of times—”

“—OK, I get it,” Harold laughs.

“—short-sighted, and far too trusting, but you’re not an idiot. Never have been in all the years I’ve known you.”

Harold smiles despite himself. It's an abysmal effort to cheer him up, but Siebren is trying his hardest, and he can't help but appreciate it. “I hope good-looking is on that list.”

Siebren smirks. “Do you really want to know?”

Harold punches Siebren lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head. The events of a few hours past feel so long ago, and Siebren is acting like nothing happened. Knowing how fragile Siebren is now, it should comfort Harold that he’s laughing and talking normally, and yet it doesn’t. There are words left unsaid, stories left untold. Siebren hides it well, but his jaw is set tight and his shoulders are tense. Mentally, he’s in control. Emotionally, that’s harder to say.

Harold waits for Tracer to begin talking before he makes his move. “That was a black hole earlier,” he says.

“Yes,” Siebren utters, looking uncomfortable.

“I heard the noises. The universe’s melody, as you called it.” He pauses before admitting, quieter, “It’s terrifying.”

Siebren grimaces. “I know.”

Harold frowns. “How many lives did you take?”

“Far too many to count,” Siebren says. “I’d rather not kill, but it's a necessary evil in my life now. I cannot have any regrets.”

Harold remembers the lifeless body of Tempest Williams stacked amongst the other guards and feels sick to his stomach. “I’m not like you then.”

“It gets easier over time, the killing. You learn to accept it. Death is inevitable and life can be cut short. Although,” Siebren ducks his head, “I was not necessarily in control when I first took a man’s life. Even now, it's easy to convince myself it's all for the sake of research.”

Harold has suspected this for some time. He isn’t surprised, but it doesn’t comfort him to know that Siebren has lost his mind before and that Talon manipulated him to kill when he was in that fragile state. It explains why all the Talon staff feared Siebren. In his mind’s eye he sees himself in that fateful moment last night when he lost control himself, eyes wild and crazed, his attacks bloodthirsty and savage like an animal. In a way, it’s worse than Siebren, because he doesn’t have an excuse to defend his actions. He let his emotions get the better of him, clouding his vision. He is the one who killed those people. He’s a murderer.

Siebren's hand goes up to his shoulder, rubbing small circles. Harold wants to lean his head onto Siebren’s shoulder and press his lips into his neck and forget about all the atrocities they have just committed, but he knows this is the extent of Siebren’s comfort. Siebren has a point, and he will not back down from it.

“I don’t want to get used to killing,” Harold whispers.

Siebren continues rubbing, his touch light. “I know you don’t. But you will. You’ll have to if you want to survive, and I know you can. You have gotten so far by yourself.”

Harold smiles bittersweetly. “Still, if only I can avoid it.”

“You’re a grown man, Harold. I won’t shield you from the world, but I will support you.” Then, with a smirk, “I’ll always be here for you.”

Harold feels a tap at his hip and sees Siebren’s knuckles grazing the fabric. He smiles softly to himself as his fingers entwine with Siebren’s, squeezing softly as they continue their walk.

Tracer leads them to an unassuming building a few stories high. Lights and noises can be seen from the tinted windows above. Harold holds his breath as Tracer goes through the main doors and blinks within. His eyes shut rapidly as a burst of light fills the large room.

Harold has to admit, of all the things he expected when first arriving at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, a party wasn’t one of them.

The place is a laboratory filled with tools, though they have all been shoved to the side away from view. There’s a long table full of foods and drinks, all with a little piece of paper to tell people what it is, who made it, as well as any allergy warnings. Music is playing from an old-fashioned radio. Many are partnered in twos and threes, conversing pleasantly to one another. Soon as they enter, all the people within turn their heads to them, smiles on their faces. To Harold’s disappointment, he doesn’t see Winston.

“Who are your friends?” A rather tall and muscular man with white hair asks with a teasing tone in his voice.

“New guys here to hang with us for a bit. Got into a bit of a scrap to save them.” Tracer turns towards them and grins. “Should’ve seen us, we were fighting Talon with the best of them.”

“Then they are comrades.” From the table behind, the tall muscular man grabs a jug of beer and lifts it up.

That’s enough to get the small crowd to approach them. In an instant the three of them are surrounded on all sides by friendly faces. Tracer giggles lightly to herself while she raids the buffet table.

The first to greet them is the large, muscular man, flanked on either side by an equally muscular young woman and a bearded dwarf. All three of their eyes glance down to Siebren’s feet, floating a foot off the ground. They don’t seem to be frightened. In fact, they seem more intrigued than anything.

“All sorts of fancy schmancy tech nowadays,” the dwarf scratches his head.

“What’s wrong, old friend? Have you lost your touch?”

“My ‘touch’ can make your armour break faster than a boiling frog in a cauldron!”

“It’s not ‘technology’,” Siebren utters. “I have just harnessed gravity.”

The two old friends look at each other incredulously and shrug. The bigger man is quick to put a hand out. “Reinhardt Wilhelm.”

“Torbjörn Lindholm,” the dwarf says, putting his own hand out.

Siebren stares at the hand for just a second before shaking both firmly. “Sigma,” he says.

“Dr. Siebren de Kuiper,” Harold corrects, turning to Siebren. “Talon _used_ to call him Sigma. But you don’t have to use that name anymore.”

He looks like he’s about to object but Reinhardt has already clasped Siebren on the shoulder. “So they have enslaved you, but you escaped? How dreadful they must be, to strip a man of his identity.” His expression suddenly goes dark. “You were not the first to get pulled into their ranks. We lost one of our own that way.”

Harold almost thinks Siebren might set the record straight but instead he keeps his mouth shut. As if sensing Siebren’s discomfort, the two men launch into a variety of anecdotal stories about each other. Reinhardt was once a knight for the German Crusaders during the Omnic War, while Torbjörn was a member of the Ironclad Guild. He tries to play it off as a cool secret society, but Reinhardt clarifies that it was just a very ostentatious name for a group of ragtag engineers. The two had been best friends for a very long time, to the point that Reinhardt was given the honour of naming Torbjörn’s first child. At this, Brigitte, who reveals her identity as the eldest daughter, begins to pick holes at her father and godfather’s stories, correcting them on the more fantastical elements.

Harold watches as Siebren falls securely into conversation. He mentions his own work as an astrophysicist, his early life growing up and working in _Den Haag_ and the very briefest account of the ISS accident that gave him his gravitic powers. He does not talk about his mental health or what he did in Talon, which is probably for the best. It will inevitably sour the party mood. Siebren joins in on the light teasing shared between the family, making fast friends with Reinhardt and Torbjörn and Brigitte. It’s the first time he’s looked at ease since their escape, Harold notices. After today’s events, he never thought he’d see that smile again. He’s glad he’s been proven wrong.

“You are a man of strong caliber, are you not?” Reinhardt asks Siebren.

“I should think so,” Siebren utters.

“Oh no,” Brigitte sighs.

“Then why not a friendly little challenge between friends? Brigitte, bring us some beer.”

“Not a drinking contest, Reinhardt.”

“It’s hard enough lugging you around, you big oaf, but I ain’t lugging the two of you,” Torbjörn mutters.

“What’s wrong?” Reinhardt smirks at Siebren. “You chicken?”

Harold silently groans as Siebren stiffens visibly. With the markings of a man who very much doesn’t like it when someone attacks his inflated ego, Siebren stretches his hand out and the two men shake.

“This is not going to end well, is it?” Brigitte murmurs under her breath.

“Nope,” Harold sighs. He knows from many a post-conference pub crawl that Siebren, despite his size, is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Harold is a heavyweight when it comes to drinking, but he never liked the taste of alcohol enough to drink outside of special occasions. Certainly not enough to know how many drinks is his limit.

While everybody gets a table cleared for the drinking contest, Harold walks over to the buffet table and grabs a small plate. He fills it up with as much food as the small paper plate can hold. He’s got spring rolls and samosas and moon pies that look suspiciously similar to the ones he made back on Horizon, and is pleasantly surprised to find out that Winston made them himself. Food in hand, he finds a corner of the room and munches quietly, watching the small crowd. Tracer’s having a dance party with a shorter, tan man on rollerskates near the radio. On the second floor, near the staircase, Satya is watching the man with narrowed eyes. The look in her eyes is knowing and distrustful, and Harold thinks he sees the same look in the man’s eyes whenever their stares connect, but they don’t say a word to each other. A few minutes later, Brigitte breaks away from her father to chat with Satya. She hides it well, but Harold can see the relief flood Satya’s body.

It’s an organization, but it feels more than that, Harold thinks. These people from different walks of life move and talk to one another like they’re friends. Suddenly Winston’s comment that Overwatch is his family makes a lot more sense. They have all bonded over disaster and war, and those bonds are stronger than gravity.

Harold can only hope this family will accept him.

From the corner of his eye he spies a Chinese woman with glasses approach him. She looks familiar, but where from he cannot place. In her hand is a plate full of Chinese dumplings.

“You do look like the photos, Dr. Winston,” she comments.

“I’m sorry?”

“Winston, my friend. N-not you, Dr. Winston,” she stumbles. “He’s got a photo of him with you. The two of you are so cute!” Seeing his confusion, she smiles shyly. “Sorry. You may not know me. I’m Mei-ling Zhou, but you can call me Mei.”

“Oh, I remember. You were in the same team as Dr. Adams. Part of Overwatch’s Ecopoint project, right?”

Mei frowns deeply, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Harold knows that look. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She nods quietly. “We got into a blizzard in Antarctica. The cryostasis machine malfunctioned for everybody except myself.”

Harold cannot help but grimace. He’s missed a lot about the world, it seems. He’d worked together with Julian Adams, right before he got the job with Lucheng Interstellar, a long while before he will meet Siebren. Silently, he gives a soft prayer for Adams and his family, wherever they may be.

Harold takes his time to stare at the crowd and the unfamiliar surroundings. After a few seconds, he says, “I don’t see Winston.”

“He’s a bit nervous about meeting you, so he left. I’m not sure why though, this party is to celebrate him and all he’s done for us.” She points at Tracer, who’s taken a break from dancing to commentate on the drinking contest. As Harold suspects, Siebren is losing badly. “Lena got into a really bad accident. She was like a literal ghost, all see-through, disappearing for months and then reappearing. ‘Chronally displaced’, they called it. But Winston made a device so she can be with us here in the present, and now she can zip through time. She’s so cool!”

So Winston’s an Overwatch agent and an inventor, Harold thinks. Another surge of pride fills his lungs. “I assume you know him through Overwatch?”

“No, we only met recently, but he is very lovely and very kind.” She giggles behind her hand. “You raised him well.”

Harold chuckles as he rubs the back of his head. “I suppose I did.”

"He misses you. Every time I see him, he’s always looking at a photo of you.” She gives a shy smile and adds, “He hasn’t said much, but I think he’s glad you’re safe.”

Harold stares at his surroundings, warm but unfamiliar, a fusion of the past and present and future. Winston’s stories make up the particles of these stony cliffs and worn workbenches Harold’s missed so many of them. He wants to learn them, one by one. He wants to make up for lost time. “You don’t…happen to know where he is?”

Mei just smiles and points at the main hangar doors. “Check the cliffs outside. He likes sitting there to think.”

Harold gives her a friendly goodbye, locates Siebren (who fortunately did not partake in Reinhardt’s challenge and is still sober) and together they head away from the party.

It’s hard to find out what Mei meant by the cliffs, because most of the area outside the HQ is made of steep cliffs. The cool evening wind whips at them, a stark contrast to the warm levity of the party. Harold's worried he might have to rely on the nanobots to see in the darkness, but the moon shines brightly above their heads, lighting the way.

They make their way down the stone steps and follow the path between the buildings. It’s there that they find Winston, sitting at the edge of the cliff between two smaller buildings, gazing forlornly at something in his hands. Harold pauses in his steps, his breath catching in his throat as he watches Winston’s silent form. Winston is here, looking exactly the same as he remembered, only more mature. The white bodysuit hides most of his fur,

He turns to Siebren, who only stares at him. Siebren offers his hand to Harold and he squeezes it lightly before finally approaching Winston. Harold sits beside him, not saying a word. Winston doesn’t appear to react, but Harold can feel those sunflower irises scan him, looking for any sign that he is an imposter or a ghost or a figment of his imagination. Something to prove he's not real.

Harold glances at the photo and recognizes it almost immediately. It’s one that Winston took when he was a child, the first one he ever took, albeit by accident. Harold was working in the lab with Hammond when Winston took the picture. Seeing his younger self smiling politely into the camera, seeing baby Winston play eagerly with his glasses, it sends a familiar ache of affection to his chest.

“Where’d you get that photo?” Harold whispers.

“The camera,” Winston replies, just as quiet. “I grabbed as many spare pictures I could find, and then I downloaded the rest from the camera before I came to Earth.” He smiles bittersweetly at the photo. “I was so young.”

“We both were.”

Winston blows air out of his large nostrils. “You were in your forties.”

“I’m still young, I was just even younger back then.”

Slowly, he grabs one end of the photo and pulls it towards him. He can feel Winston’s fur on his arm beneath the white bodysuit and the body heat radiating. For a second, Winston stiffens, and Harold worries if perhaps he’s gone too fast, but then there’s an arm wrapping around his back. He turns to see Winston’s eyes, as wide and beautiful as the moon in the sky.

“I miss you,” Harold admits. “Sorry I haven’t been here for you all these years.”

Winston shakes his head softly. “It’s fine. I had family to take care of me when you were gone.”

“Overwatch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Winston chuckles quietly for a few seconds. He stares at the photo and smiles. “I guess I’m lucky then,” Winston says, finally gazing upon Harold. “I’ve got two families now.”

Harold’s vision begins to blur and he realizes that tears are forming in his eyes. He huffs as he wipes them away with his arm, which he has only just realized is still red from when he was strapped to the bed. He’s not sure if it’s the sea wind or the new setting or the moon above his head, but Oasis already feels like a lifetime away. Winston’s gazing upon him with unspoken affection.

Before he can say anything, the air shifts as Siebren floats over.

Harold patted the ground next to him. “Join us,” he says.

“I shouldn’t,” Siebren starts, but Harold is already standing up and dragging him to the cliff edge. With a roll of his eyes and a smirk of his lips, Siebren waves his hand. Rocks from the cliff roll up and stack together to create a reclining chair for Siebren to lie down on.

“And you thought me seeing in the dark was special.”

“Off-target effects,” Siebren says in an annoyingly inaccurate representation of Harold’s voice.

Winston’s gaze lingers between the two older men, a soft look of understanding falling on his face. He chuckles deeply. “You two haven’t changed.”

Harold shares a look with Siebren. “We haven’t, have we?”

Siebren smiles bashfully but earnestly. “Speak for yourself.”

The three of them sit there and watch the stars as they glitter in the ebony expanse of space. They’re content to admire for afar, but old habits die hard, and soon Harold’s talking about the stories behind the constellations. Siebren joins in about the more scientific fact about star systems while Winston discusses the planets in great detail. For one brief moment, they’re just enjoying the present together, without fear or worry about the past or the present. They’re a family, reunited at last.

Harold doesn’t hear Siebren slip away, leaving him alone with Winston. His eyes are glued to the moon, pale and beautiful despite all the tragedy that bathes its surface. He wonders briefly if Chang’e, the goddess of the moon, saw the rebellion. Who would she mourn more? The humans who lost their lives, or the gorillas who endured so much suffering?

“You’re together with Dr. de Kuiper, right?” Winston asks suddenly.

Harold blushes despite himself. “Despite the universe being hellbent on keeping me buried in the ground? Yes.”

“But you were gone for a decade. Everybody thought you were dead. How did you find each other again?”

“Siebren found me. Or rather, Talon found me. I was called a lot of things while I was stuck on the moon. Jade Rabbit, Specimen: 31, a whole bunch of expletives, you name it.” He stares at the rushing waves far beneath his feet. “I joined Talon partly because Siebren was in their ranks, and partly because I didn’t know better. I think it’s the same with Siebren, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“After all this time, you still loved each other?”

“I’m not sure if we _still _loved each other. I think we were relieved to have a familiar face at first. But then we fell into old habits.” Harold recalls the first fleeting kiss he pressed onto Siebren’s face after Tempest’s first attack and smiles. “Guess it’s more accurate to say an old flame got rekindled.”

Winston nods thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. Sounds similar to how I feel right now.”

Harold turns to Winston and frowns. “How do you feel about me being here?”

“I don’t know,” Winston admits. “A bit nervous, I suppose.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“About how I feel about our relationship. About the moon, and the others back on Horizon…and you.”

The waves beat against the rocky face of the cliff, reflecting the light of the night sky. Harold wonders right then and there what will happen if he jumps. From this height, the impact would normally kill him, but he’s not a normal man anymore. Will the nanobots protect him, or will it all be futile? Will Winston and Siebren cry over him if he dies for real this time?

Winston turns his head sharply away in embarrassment. “S-sorry. D-don’t take it the wrong way, I am happy that you’re here and that you’re alive. Heh. I’m…really glad you’re alive, actually, but…um…”

“It’s fine, champ. The past is the past. We choose whether or not we look back upon it for guidance.” Harold braves a small smile. “Whatever you want me to be, I’ll always be here to support you.”

Winston smiles bashfully to himself. He takes the glasses off his face and stares at them for a few seconds. Harold just looks at the frames, an identical copy to his previous pair, caressed in Winston’s gorilla hands like they’re the most precious thing in the world. He turns to Harold, smiles enigmatically, then slips them back on.

His words are quiet against the thundering waves and the howling winds, but to Harold, they’re crystal clear and perfect pitch.

“I really did miss you,” Winston whispers.

Harold wraps his arm around Winston’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. “So did I, buddy. So did I."

They stare at the ocean until they’re shivering from the cold. They stand up and walk together back to the party, side by side. There’s still nervous smiles shared, still a bit of fragile hesitation, but it feels like the walls between them have crumbled. They’ve become just a bit closer. He doesn’t even realise that his arm is still around Winston’s shoulder until he gets back to the party.

The light atmosphere is gone. The music has long stopped and there is no chatter or banter. Everyone’s attention is drawn up to a hologram, their faces unreadable. Harold stares at the hologram, where a news presenter, Olympia Shaw, stands in front of a very familiar building.

_“We’re just outside Lucheng Interstellar’s headquarters here in Lijiang, where they have just made the announcement that Dr. Harold Winston is still up on Horizon One.”_

At a press conference, the new director of Lucheng Interstellar stands amidst a small crowd of reporters. Harold doesn’t recognize the man, even when his name pops up. He smiles professionally into the camera.

_“It’s absolutely gut-wrenching to lose one of our own, but now we have the chance to bring one of our scientists back home. If we are able to rescue Dr. Winston, not only will we know more about the tragic accident that cut communications with the lunar base, but we will also gain valuable data on human colonization in space. We might learn more about how humans will be able to adapt to live on Mars.”_

Olympia Shaw shows the formal picture of Harold taken from his badge on the screen as she discusses Harold’s research and role on Horizon, as well as giving a vague generalization of the rebellion. It’s weird to hear someone talk about him like this, like he’s a celebrity of the utmost importance.

Tempest’s picture pops up briefly as the director discusses her ‘untimely’ death. The news claims it’s a sudden heart attack. Harold knows better.

The footage cuts back to the conference with the director, flanked on both sides by his investors. _“We will be launching a shuttle as soon as possible. Our primary goal is to bring Dr. Winston back down to Earth safely and rehabilitate him if needed.”_

He says more, but no one is concentrating on his words anymore. They’re all staring at the people flanked by his side. Moira and Sanjay stand a fair bit away from him, both dressed in sharp suits. He feels eyes latch onto his body, one by one. Suddenly his throat feels dry.

“Why are they saying you’re still on Horizon?” Tracer asks.

“My tracker should be on my old lab coat there, but that can’t be it. Dr. O’Deorain and Sanjay Korpal know I’m alive.”

Winston frowns gravely. “What are they planning?”

“The research,” Siebren utters, his expression dark. “Mr. Korpal was talking about Dr. Winston’s work with interest. The nanobots he has created can give a man temporary invulnerability. Talon hopes to use it to create the ultimate living weapon, an invincible machine of death.”

“We know Talon has already mastered mind control techniques, and if Dr. O’Deorain really is a member of Talon as our intel suggests, who knows what technology they have?” Winston shakes his head. “If it’s just technology and research they want, it still doesn’t explain why they’re saying he’s in space when he’s right here.”

“It’s blackmail,” Harold says grimly. He feels the eyes on his body once again but he tries to shake the feeling away. “They have part of my research, but not all of it. I’ve only wrote about improvements, not the actual design itself. And the original design is stored on Horizon’s computers. If they get their hands on it, combined with my notes, they can recreate it. Get the invincible soldiers they’ve always wanted.”

“It’s an excuse to go back up there,” Winston gasps. “If this means what I think it means, we have to stop them.”

“How?” Harold asks.

Winston smirks as he adjusts his glasses. “You just leave that to us.”

All around Harold, the Overwatch members rally together, faces bright and fierce in determination. They’ve huddled around Winston, looking up to him as their leader, but more than that they are united by a single cause. That’s the thing that unites these disparate people and personalities together, Harold realises. They all want to do good by the world. They are all heroes.

It’s always been Harold’s dream to change the world for the better, but so far he’s just sent it hurling faster into chaos and destruction. But with these people, this new Overwatch, maybe he finally has an opportunity to make amends. Maybe this is why he is here. To right his wrongs. To make a difference.

To be a hero.

He clasps Winston tightly on the shoulder. He closes his eyes for a second to compose himself, and when he opens them, he’s sure there’s fire and gold in his gaze. His voice is unwavering and strong. “Never accept the world as it appears to be. Dare to see it for what it could be.”

Winston’s eyes glitter. Small gasps escape from a few of the others around them. “Does that mean…? Are you…?”

Harold smiles. “I’m helping you out, hero. Wherever, however I can.”


	11. Evil actions and good intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Alphawave13), [tumblr](https://alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/), or check out my [Sigma/Harold discord server](https://discord.gg/DHh26tU)_

Sigma is awoken in the early hours of the morning by a dip in the bed. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, instead raising his arm and reaching over to the other side of the mattress, relieved to feel soft flesh freckled with age spots against his palm. His hand curls over the body, pulling them closer.

There’s a quiet chuckle, no louder than a whisper. “Siebren, come on.”

“Stay,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“Siebren, I have to get up. I promised to join Reinhardt and Genji in their morning training.”

“Please,” Sigma whispers.

Harold lets out a quiet sigh of defeat before nestling closer to Sigma. He presses a sleepy kiss to his shoulder, then his chin, and then his nose. His hot breath tickles Sigma’s skin. “I’m blaming you if Reinhardt asks me why I’m late.”

“Good,” Sigma smiles as he pulls Harold close and buries his nose into Harold’s greying hairline. Harold smells like sage and soil and the Earth, ironic for a man who was at his most comfortable on the moon. Sigma’s sure he’ll get teased for keeping Harold here when he’s expected. He’s already gotten a few stares when he asked to share a room with Harold. He’ll get a few more today.

Harold yawns lightly as he wraps his arms around Sigma. True to his promise, Harold has worked tirelessly to help Overwatch in their mission to stop Lucheng Interstellar from going back to Horizon lunar base. It is one thing to help come up with strategies, Sigma thinks, but Harold is training his body with Reinhardt in the mornings and working on his aim in the evening with Sojourn. In the afternoons, if he’s not studying his nanobots with Mei, he’s making up armour pieces with Torbjörn and Brigitte and adding a tesla cannon prototype to his jet injector with Winston. To anyone else, Harold is preparing to fight, but Sigma knows better. Harold is ready to risk his life for his vision, regardless of the consequences. Sigma admires it as much as it frightens him.

He wants to keep a low cover. He wants time to rest and relax and just forget about the world. He smiles along, getting along with this new Overwatch, but in the inside he knows he’s not whole. How can he be? He summoned the black hole of his nightmares into creation once more. He obeyed the call of the universe, let it sink its dark tendrils into his soul, gave it permission to rip him apart. You don’t just forget that. You don’t just pretend everything is alright after that. But that’s exactly what he’s doing by going along with Harold's whims. He has to pretend he's alright, if not for Harold or himself then for this cause that Harold so eagerly believes in. Overwatch needs Siebren, not Sigma.

But how long can he pretend to be something he's not? 

When Sigma opens his eyes, Harold’s staring at him. His lips are pulled into a tight frown and his brows are furrowed. He places a soft hand on Sigma’s cheek.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he gruffly replies.

“Nightmares again?”

Sigma doesn’t speak. He lets Harold smooth his fingers over his face, a familiar and comforting gesture. They’re not nightmares, but he’d rather have Harold think they are. Harold doesn’t need to know how fragile he really is.

“What kind of nightmares are they?

“Nothing you should concern yourself with. Stupid things. Inconsequential things.”

Harold sighs quietly in disconcert but accepts the silence as an answer. Sigma lets his fingers trace over Harold’s stubble. It's rough, 

“You’re thinking again. What are you thinking about?”

“Just, you know…how happy I am, as odd as that is. Despite everything.”

Sigma lets out a soft smile. “I’m not surprised. You’ve been reunited with your son. You’ve found a new home.”

“It’s not just him. It’s you too.” Harold presses another tender kiss to the left corner of Sigma’s lips. “I know you didn’t really have much of a say what with the whole kidnapping thing but…I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Sigma can’t help but frown as he remembers the black hole forming in his hands. The universe’s whispers sang in his ears, and he remembers how magnificent it sounded. In his fractured state of mind, it was so easy to fall for their charms. All they did was dangle Harold in front of his face and he ran, like a horse to a carrot, unleashing that terrible power bottled inside his mortal body. How easy will it be for his mind to fracture again? How easy will it be for him to take Harold’s life in the chaos, just like that?

His arm curls around Harold’s form as he pulls him in tight, impossibly tight. Harold wants to say something, but Sigma presses his mouth against Harold’s open mouth and swallows his words and his moans. Harold is quick to surrender, holding Sigma’s face as he kisses back. Soon, they are lost to one another, time and space and responsibilities slipping away into nothing, if only for a precious moment.

If he kisses Harold long enough, if he touches his skin tenderly enough, perhaps he might forget about the weight of gravity on his shoulders.

* * *

He’s working in one of the labs this new Overwatch provides. A lot of his work was lost in Oasis but he makes do with what he remembers and what he knows. Though his mind is not whole, his memory is still sharp. Recalling his work is as easy as reciting the Dutch alphabet. He remembers. Perhaps he remembers too much, he thinks, as he stares at his idle hands, the dark strands of the universe threading through his fingers.

He sees the universe but he doesn’t hear it. Long ago, he thought he’d be relieved when the universe stops its incessant whispering. But now that it is gone, it’s the silence that scares him. Every little noise is so much louder. He hears the footsteps outside his lab and thinks he’s back in Oasis, chained up to the wall, waiting to be killed by Sanjay Korpal, waiting for those emotionless eyes to swallow his entire being in darkness. It’s almost like he's acutely aware he’s in a dream, and that sooner or later he will wake up back in the cheap lumpy mattress of the government facility, utterly alone.

He tries to work, and when that fails to quell that horrid gnawing in his chest, he summons the hyperspheres into his hands, watching them roll across his palm like Baoding balls. Harold had gifted him a pair once before, many years ago. It was the exact day that Sigma learned of Harold’s mixed heritage, of his Chinese roots as well as his American ones. As Sigma observes the spinning balls in his hand, it reminds him of binary star systems circling around one another, and then a swirling vortex, and then the black hole.

Fear freezes his heart as he flickers the hyperspheres out of existence, but it’s too late. He sees a phantom take Harold’s form, screaming in horror as its body is pulled apart by the black hole. He sees a phantom of himself, horrible and terrifying, observing Harold's phantom with the cold, clinical fascination of a researcher who has obtained a mildly interesting result. But whereas Harold’s phantom is a figment of his imagination, Sigma knows that his own phantom is a part of his soul. A beast that resides within his chest, ready to seize his fragile mind, begging for release.

_Release me_, it growls. _Release me_.

Is it his powers or just his fractured mind that feels the walls closing in on his body? Sigma digs his fingers into his skull, unable to force his eyes closed. The silence is stifling, unnerving, unnatural. When before there would be voices telling him he’s a monster, all he hears now is a singular voice—his voice—telling him the darkest truths. He will never be Siebren de Kuiper again. He will forever be Sigma. Forever Sigma. Sigma.

“Dr. de Kuiper?”

He whips his head to the doorway. Satya—or Symmetra, as she calls herself—is standing in a long, double-slitted dress. Her body language is stilted, uncomfortable. It's worrisome but not unexpected. Despite all the time she has spent in the Overwatch base developing her hard light constructs, she has not gotten comfortable with anyone. 

“I have come in at a bad time,” she mutters.

“N-no, no, it’s fine,” Sigma quickly says. He gestures at a nearby seat. “Come in.”

Satya stares at him for a few seconds before taking two steps forward. She does not give indication she will go further than that. “Forgive my intrusion. There is a purpose to my presence, but I will not detain you if you are busy.”

Sigma glances at the blank document on the computer. It’s been blank since he came into this room today, and it will probably remain blank for the rest of the day. With a sigh, he forces himself to look away. “You’re not interrupting me. What is it?”

“This is a private discussion. About a private matter.”

Sigma frowns. “Surely you can pester Dr. Winston, not me. If it’s a personal issue, he can help you. He’s much better at this sort of thing than I am.”

“He is busy,” she utters. “Besides, I’d rather ask for your opinion on this delicate topic. If you are free, that is.”

Sigma lets out a quite breath. He turns off the computer and walks towards her. This is probably a blessing in disguise. Conversation will keep his mind occupied, especially if it is with Satya. But he knows from personal experience that conversation alone won’t be enough to quell the darkness. “Walk with me. We shall walk and talk, as they say.”

Satya nods as she falls in step with him and exits the lab.

Sigma wanders the hallways, searching for the exit within the labyrinth of halls. His lab is right in the centre of the main facility, which has its pros and cons. It’s relatively unused but clean, and it’s far away from many of the other workshops so it's rare that he is disturbed from his work, but it also means he can’t see the sky and feel the sunshine on his skin. He didn’t used to see the sun a lot when he was Siebren, and he didn’t see the sun a lot as Sigma, but for some reason he needs to see it today. He needs to feel the ocean breeze, hear the whip of the wind, remind himself that he’s on Earth. The world seems so surreal nowadays. Reminders like these, however absurd, have become increasingly necessary in his life.

Satya taps a rhythmic pattern into her bicep. She’s been silent for too long. She’s bursting to say something. “I do not belong here,” she admits.

Sigma nods politely. It's unwelcome to hear, but not entirely unexpected. “Why do you think that?”

“These people, this cause, it’s not what I am used to.”

“This new Overwatch seems to be rather idealistic in their beliefs,” Sigma grunts.

“Perhaps, but at its core it is far greater than that. It is truly benevolent. This new Overwatch truly wants to bring order and peace to the world, and I respect that because that is what I also believe in. But at the same time, the way it is going…it’s at odds with Vishkar.”

Sigma frowns as he observes Satya. The ways they have been indoctrinated differ, but he recognises the signs and symptoms. “How long have you been in Vishkar?”

“Since my childhood. They raised me up from the slums, gave me the opportunity to master hard light and make a difference. And there are good people there, who want to shape order in this chaotic world.” Satya's gaze lowers as she recalls the friends and family she has left behind. 

Sigma understands all too well. “Even after all you’ve seen, it’s hard to separate the bad from the good," he says. "They’ve been so kind to you that it’s easier to forgive them for their betrayals.”

Satya is quiet for a long while. “What do I do?” She whispers.

“What you desire to do, of course,” Sigma replies. “The universe is limitless and timeless, and our existence is but a small blip in its lifetime. We must make the most of our limited lifespan in this world.”

“Is that why you are here? Joining this cause?”

Sigma pauses. He can’t help the frown that falls on his face.

Satya notices. “Does the rest of Overwatch know?”

“No,” Sigma replies.

“Does Dr. Winston?”

He grimaces. “No.”

Satya’s lips purse. “You should at least tell him.”

“There’s no need to. I’ve already decided to follow him wherever he may go. If he wants to play hero, then I’ll make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. He’s already been through a lot. He doesn’t need any more stress.”

“And you are OK with that?”

“Much better than I will be if I stayed with Talon,” Sigma says. “Many here want me to be the hero they think I am, but it is not to be. I’ve caused too much harm and too much death to be good. But Harold is a hero, in his legacy, beliefs, and actions. Overwatch has been reborn because of him. The world will be worse off if he did not inspire Winston as much as he did. But Harold has been alone for some time now, unable to spread his wings. It’s time I supported him and lighten the load.”

Satya’s brows furrow and Sigma thinks he's offended her, but then, in a quiet voice, she whispers to herself, "Spread your wings". She says no more after that, her expression returning to its original unreadable configuration. 

Gibraltar’s sun is not as intense as Oasis’s, but it is still hot. Satya, as expected, is unaffected, but Sigma is not used to the hot weather. He vastly prefers it over the cold, but that’s more because the warm weather lets him get away with going barefoot. Near the hanger, Sigma spies Harold and Winston chatting together. They’re still awkward after all this time, but the distance between them is getting closer and closer. He sees Harold’s bashful smile, soft but warm, but like a star, it only seems that way from a distance. Up close, Sigma knows it’s bright and blinding and mesmerizing. He's seen it before, and he's always marveled at its splendour. 

Sigma feels his lips pull up into a smile of his own, warmth creeping up his veins and spreading throughout his body. For a fleeting moment he thinks he has the courage to tell Harold the extent of his feelings but then Harold’s smile fades away as his conversation with Winston becomes more serious. 

He only just realizes that Satya is watching him. He clears his throat loudly to hide his blush, but it only causes her to chuckle behind her hand.

“You two are certainly a pair.”

Sigma stares at the father and son figures in the distance. They have not yet realized he’s here. They’re too engrossed in their own conversation. “We’ll become more than a pair soon enough.”

“I thought you got along well enough with Winston,” Satya remarks.

“I do, but Harold is all but ready to adopt Winston as his child. Considering my own relationship with Dr. Winston, that makes my relationship with Winston rather complicated.”

“At least you have the chance to be a family. You should embrace it.”

Family. He hasn’t thought of it like that, has he? If Harold somehow is able to pull it off, will Sigma become Winston’s step-dad or his step-uncle?

No, that’s ridiculous. First of all, Harold will have to not be legally dead. Second of all, he’s pretty sure there are laws against adopting a 29-year-old gorilla, especially since said-gorilla is technically a legal citizen of Earth and is also technically the same age as Sigma and Harold in gorilla years. Third and finally, Sigma would have to be married to Harold in that hypothetical scenario, which was pretty much impossible for a multitude of reasons.

Still, it’s easy to imagine Harold taking his surname. Harold Winston is a nice enough name, but Harold de Kuiper has a special ring to it. It’s easy to imagine settling down with Harold and being a couple again—a proper one—and just settling down in a place of their own, somewhere far away from the world and the cockroaches they call people. It's easy to imagine Winston joining them, and perhaps even the cute little hamster Hammond, wherever he may be. But that opportunity has been gone for decades now. It will remain a figment of his imagination.

He watches Harold’s eyes finally catch his, sees those lips pull up into a brighter smile. Winston turns towards him too, giving a small salute in greetings. Sigma waves back, unsurprised to feel the heat drift up his body to his cheeks, taking away the tightness and pain in his head. It’s fleeting, but that’s more than he can ever want.

“I think we already are a family,” Sigma whispers, too soft for Satya to hear.

For a few days, no one sees Satya despite affirmation from Athena that she is indeed still on the base. Then, one day during a meeting, she dramatically opens the doors and takes her seat, looking none worse for wear. Many express their concern. Others express their relief. Satya ignores all of them, pointing at a tiny little detail on the hologram.

“You should strike there, where the defence systems are weakest. Only a fool will strike in this location.”

Every meeting after, she mostly spends her time correcting issues in Winston’s plans. He does not mind, and in fact seems grateful for the corrections, and the two strike up an odd friendship. Every now and then she shoots Sigma a rare grateful look. Despite her claims otherwise, in those rare moments, she looks like a majestic leader, a hero worthy of legends. 

* * *

Things pick up quickly. Preparations are made quickly. Things are moved and made and placed and packed. More people come to the base, all with their own stories, all ready to join Winston's cause. Sigma meets Genji and his omnic mentor Zenyatta and Dr Ziegler and the cybernetic Sojourn and the mysterious but cheerful Echo. Of them all, he is most intrigued with Zenyatta. He’s heard of the Shambali, always was curious of their cause, but he never cared about them. But that was back when he was Siebren, when his mind was whole. He's a lot more open to the concept of the Iris now.

The members of Overwatch are supportive, kind, and well-meaning. He's not sure if they have noticed, or if perhaps Harold told them, but they are quick to pick up on when he's not in a good mood, quickly changing the subject or involving him in their activities. He appreciates their efforts but it does little to quell the darkness he feels in his soul. Every night he has nightmares of every evil thing he’s done, and every morning he wakes up in a cold sweat. He can’t live like this. If he wants to help Harold, he needs to let go of his baggage, be born anew, without the weight of the universe on his shoulders. 

That is why he slips a message to Zenyatta’s room one day, asking if he’d be willing to help him. He is surprised when, moments later, Zenyatta himself comes to his lab. Sigma hadn’t signed the note. It must have been obvious to the omnic monk what he needs.

Zenyatta asks Sigma to follow him to the cliffside where a makeshift mat has already been set out. Zenyatta gestures Sigma to sit in. He does, copying the same pose Zenyatta is making, floating and all.

“I sense discord in your soul. Two halves, fighting for control, yin and yang. They are not as one.”

He doesn’t deny it. He’s known it all along. These halves have names: Siebren and Sigma. His two identities.

But Zenyatta shakes his head. “We all wear masks in our lives, some for the protection of ourselves, and some for the protection of others. That is not the source of your discord. No, I believe it is how you perceive these masks that troubles you the most.”

Sigma bows his head, unable to answer.

Zenyatta continues. “You are your own worst enemy. That may be true for all, but you in particular perceive your enemy to be greater than yourself. You fear the unknown.”

“It is not the unknown I fear. It is what I know that haunts me.”

“And what is it you know that you fear?”

Sigma bristles. He’s already said too much. Zenyatta is perceptively easy to talk to, perhaps easier than Harold, and the omnic knows it. Sigma suspects that this trait is something Zenyatta learned, rather than something innate within the Shambali. 

Slowly, Zenyatta summons his own orbs, letting them chime around his body. The melody is soothing, almost at odds with the universe’s song, but the melodies don't clash discordantly. Rather, they mesh together, discord and harmony together as one, as if they are meant to be together. “You must confront the source of your fears, but that source, I believe, is not within you. It resides elsewhere, in another vessel," Zenyatta says.

Sigma knows he has to talk to Harold. He will need to, before he goes on this mission, before their lives are irrevocably changed for good once again. But he still has a bit of time. With Zenyatta’s help, they go through some meditation practice together. Sigma will visit Zenyatta every day and meditate with him, sometimes with Genji, sometimes alone.

Sigma decides that the Shambali way is not too dissimilar from his own. One could argue that the Iris and the universe are the same being. In another life he might join the Shambali and make amends for his wrongdoings, but for now he rolls his shoulders, centres his being, and focuses. With every session with Zenyatta, he regains a bit of strength, a bit of control, and a bit more confidence to tell Harold what’s really going on in his mind.

* * *

Two days before everyone is to depart for Lijiang, he is summoned to the training grounds. He doesn’t think there’s any changes to the plan, and he doesn’t think he’s built up such a quick rapport with the other Overwatch agents to warrant a summons, which is why he is surprised when they gift him a new set of armour to wear, handcrafted by Brigitte and Torbjörn themselves. It’s almost identical to his Talon armour but modified slightly, with roudner shapes and painted in a different colour set—whites and yellows and deep blues instead of the cold turquoise of his old uniform. Yellow is his favourite colour, but only one person in the world knows that. He gives a wry smile to Harold, who looks up at the ceiling. Sigma laughs quietly, floating the armour behind his back as he walks to the locker room. He changes into it quickly. It's a snug fit, but far more comfortable than his previous uniform. The lining is softer, and there's more support in the heavier areas. It's made for him, literally and metaphorically.

When he emerges from a stall, Harold is standing before him in his own uniform, also similar to his old one. It’s orange, mostly heavy-duty fabric with a few pieces of armour at his knees. White padding lines his shoulders, black stripes cutting across the orange, leading down to a few large tubes that stick out of his body, transporting golden liquid into a backpack comprised of clear cannisters. Where the Lunar Ops logo used to be on his left breast, the Overwatch logo now stands, small and proud, not unlike the smile Harold wears on his face.

“Tell me honestly, Siebren, do I look weird?”

Sigma smiles. “You look better than fine.” _Like a hero, _Sigma thinks but doesn’t say.

Harold chuckles. “You do too.”

Sigma catches a glance at his reflection and frowns. With the suit, he looks a lot more like his younger self, back when he was Siebren. Except Siebren does not have these ridges carved underneath his sunken eyes. Siebren does not gaze back with such fear and sorrow in his heart. Siebren is not this fragile.

This is a caricature of Siebren, he can’t help but think as he looks at his reflection. Within the mirror, he sees a bad cosplay, an imposter, a face double. Anything but himself.

“It doesn’t fit me.”

“That’s what I get for trying to measure your old armour,” Harold sighs. “I’ll ask Torb if he can make some adjustments.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean...it doesn’t suit me.”

Harold frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Look at me,” he gestures at his clothes. “I look like a sci-fi wizard from some idiotic video game.”

Harold walks towards him and places his hand on Sigma’s jaw, checking him over. “You look like you.”

“But what is me? What am I?”

Harold’s brows crease as he takes a step back. “You’re Siebren.”

“But I’m not Siebren. I’ve told you time and time again that I am Sigma, but you refuse to acknowledge me as such.”

“Because you are Siebren,” Harold states matter-of-factly. He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “You are not Sigma.”

“Siebren de Kuiper is dead!”

“Sigma was never a real person in the first place, and you know it! ”

He stares as Harold’s eyes turn golden before flickering back to dark chocolate. A second later and Sigma feels the furniture rattle within the room. With a wave of his hand he quickly puts everything back in place but it’s far too late. He’s disappointed Harold. Despite the meditation, despite his efforts, however tiny of a slip, he’s lost control of his powers again. He can’t do that. Not if he wants to protect Harold.

“What is this really about?” He asks quietly.

Sigma thinks he has the confidence to tell Harold but it strikes his heart and his tongue, making them both swell. He forces himself to turn away. “Nothing,” he croaks.

“It’s not nothing,” Harold sighs. “I didn’t want to say it, but you’ve been acting kind of weird lately. I thought it was because you had trouble adjusting, or you didn’t want me to go on this mission. But it’s something else, isn’t it.”

Sigma gazes upon Harold, unflinching when he sees the golden aura surrounding Harold's body. It’s a figment of his imagination, not the nanobots that he knows Harold is very capable of using, but if he concentrates hard enough he might be able to feel its radiant warmth. Harold is the sun, and Sigma wants to be in his light in the desperate hope that it can outshine his shadows. But he knows that's not how light works.

He takes a step forward, and the darkness begins to spill out. The universe speaks to him again. _Release me_, it growls, but it doesn’t sound so threatening anymore. The darkness is a harness, and he has harnessed the harness. If he lets it all out now, perhaps then his body can finally be filled with those dazzling rays of light. Perhaps then, he will never have to hide anything from Harold any more, and he can be as close to whole as he possibly can. Perhaps then he can look at himself with the same ardent affection as Harold looks at him.

“Sometimes when I look at you, I feel like I’m gazing at a distant star," Sigma whispers. "It’s dazzling, but that light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe that star doesn’t exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.”

“_Kafka on the Shore_ by Haruki Murakami,” Harold whispers. “That’s my favourite book. But…are you saying what I think you’re saying?

“I’m afraid,” Sigma admits quietly. 

“Afraid?”

“You’re a hero, Harold. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been the one to inspire heroism. I’ve seen you with so many people but this is the first time you have looked in your element." He places a tender hand on Harold’s cheek, the strings of gravity tugging at his fingers. "Even now you are glowing.”

Harold’s eyes widen slightly, the first droplets beading at the edge of his eyes. Sigma wants to kiss them away but he must continue on. He has to, while he still can. 

“I’m not a hero like you. Even before I became Sigma, I was only motivated by my own selfish desires for the world. But as Sigma, I became worse. I’m always at the brink of losing myself to the universe. I’m always a flick of the wrist away from destroying everything in my path. I could've fought those violent tendencies, but I didn't. You’ve seen me, I’m dangerous, and I can’t be dangerous if I want to help you.”

He’s shaking now, his fists clenched so tightly the muscles on his hands are straining. But gravity remains unchanging and Harold is still here. His eyes trail down to the centre of Sigma’s chest piece.

“Is that what it is? You’re afraid you’ll hurt me?” Harold asks softly.

Sigma pauses before shaking his head. “No. I'm afraid I might never be the hero you need me to be.” _I’m afraid you won’t love me_, Sigma says with his eyes.

Harold takes a few seconds to gaze at Sigma’s armour. His hands touch every piece he can get his hands on, working his way down from the shoulder plates to the harness, down to the stomach piece. “What’s the difference between a hero and a villain?”

“A hero is someone that does good. A villain is someone that does evil,” Sigma says.

But Harold shakes his head with a small smile. “It’s not that black and white. Heroes often work against the law, but does that make them evil? And what about all those stories about corrupt politicians doing something good for the populace just so they will turn a blind eye to their indiscretions? Look at us, look at this new Overwatch. We’re going to be breaking into a world renowned space corporation, hijacking a space shuttle, and hiding vital research from getting into the wrong hands. Does that sound like something a hero does?”

Sigma can’t help but smile. “I suppose not.”

“I’m sure by the end of it, the world will call us villains. But it’s all about what follows up from then, and what a person’s true intentions are, that defines who they are. Our actions may be evil, selfish, cruel, but ultimately our intentions are good. Does that make us right? Not necessarily. But then again, who is to say what is right and what is wrong in this crazy topsy-turvy world of ours?”

Sigma wraps a hand around Harold’s waist. “So, what does that make us then?”

“Depends on our intentions,” Harold smirks. "We can do evil things and still mean the best intentions. That doesn't make us villains."

“And if my intentions are very, very inappropriate for a child audience?” Sigma winks.

“Well, you’re going to have to keep it child-friendly for a bit longer,” he laughs. “The others want to see how we look.”

“Then give me a moment. One moment.”

Harold smiles softly, giving his silent permission. For a few seconds, Sigma pulls Harold into a crushing hug, pressing a kiss to Harold’s forehead. The contact is brief, and it’s hard to part, but soon they drift away from each other’s arms.

“Thank you, Harold. I needed that.” Sigma admits quietly.

“You’re welcome.” Harold’s lips suddenly purse. “Actually…on the topic of Sigma and Siebren, do you want me to call you Sigma from now on?" Before Sigma can respond, Harold quickly adds, "I-I know what I said earlier, but if it really makes you feel more comfortable, I can call you Sigma if you want.”

It’s touching, and considerate, and another reason why Sigma does not deserve Harold, but he shakes his head softly. “No need. Siebren sounds so much nicer from your lips.”

Harold grins back. “A lot of things sound nicer from my lips, tiger.”

“And you told me to keep our conversation family friendly,” he laughs. Sigma takes Harold’s hand in his. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

When they finally emerge, they’re met with a small pattering of applause. The other agents all remark on how ‘regal’ Sigma looks currently, and how Harold has once against rolled up his sleeves, but the conversation quickly drifts away to other topics like world events and the upcoming mission to Lijiang. Soon, everyone’s in their own little circles, interacting with each other. And Sigma is a part of it, blending in seamlessly. Amongst the soldiers, scientists, and oddities, he doesn't stand out. In fact, he fits in. Perhaps it's the first time he can recall fitting in so seamlessly, both as Siebren and as Sigma.

“Did you just call Dr. Winston ‘dad’, Winston?” Tracer teases.

“Did you just call me ‘dad’ for the first time?” Harold grins.

Winston is blushing furiously. “A slip of the tongue, I assure you.”

Sigma chuckles lightly to himself, shaking his head in amusement. “Now the monkey has come out of its sleeve,” he says. “I always knew you two would make a cute father-son duo.”

Harold smirks. "Why not turn it into a father-son-father trio?"

Winston's blush goes even redder. "P-please."

"Why, I did not know you were the shy kind, Winston," Sigma teases. "Don't want to hang out with your hip, groovy dads, _son_?"

"This is why I don't go out much," Winston mumbles to himself.

To everyone’s surprise but Sigma, Harold is able to convince everybody to do a group picture. It takes a few attempts, especially because Sigma has been designated camera man, but eventually a suitable picture is taken. In the final picture, as Sigma stares at his own face, he sees a different visage altogether. It’s still not the repugnant overconfidence of Siebren, but it’s not the fragile malaise of Sigma. Instead, it’s someone else, a different side of him, combining all the best traits of his two halves. In the photo, smiling into the camera with his ostentatious armour, he looks more like the hero he is meant to be, or perhaps the hero that he shall become.

In the end, two physical copies of the picture are made that day. One is for Winston, and the other is for Harold. When the time comes for everybody to get on the airship, they both have the same picture sticky taped behind their seats. Sigma has a different picture in his grasp. It's of him and Harold and Winston, smiling widely as they hug each other for the selfie. Sigma smiles softly as his gloved fingers trace the surface. Over time, he'll build up a collection of family photographs, and he will gaze upon them with fondness whenever he fears he shall lose his way. At that moment however, it only fills him with determination.

Soon, they shall be in Lijiang. Soon, they shall confront Talon, and Vishkar, and Lucheng Interstellar. Soon, he will make a difference. The universe is in his bones. The stars are in his soul. This will not be the end, but it will mark a change in his life. For once, Sigma embraces it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'll be participating in Sigroldweek 2019, which will be running 25th November to the 1st December. Get ready for an onslaught of space dad material when that time comes XD_


	12. Earthshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Alphawave13), [tumblr](https://alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/), or check out my [Sigma/Harold discord server](https://discord.gg/DHh26tU)_

Harold never thought he’d be back here, but here he is, staring at the Xichang Satellite Launch Center again. It hasn’t changed all that much since the last time he saw it, back when he was to board _Chang’e 50 _for what would become his final mission to Horizon Lunar Colony. It gives him a strange sense of nostalgia as he watches this new, smaller spacecraft, aglow with a million lights, engineers and technicians preparing it for its flight. News crews from all over the globe are here with their cameras pointing at the spacecraft, waiting on bated breath for the moment it launches up into the sky and disappears from sight. Everywhere Harold looks, everybody is talking about it. The world’s first lunar rescue mission. A race against time. A historic moment in the making.

And he has to go up there and literally steal the spacecraft for himself, the very man they think is trapped on the moon.

As people watch _Hou Yi 1 _get prepared, Harold sneaks in through the engineer side. He taps at his temple, briefly getting an x-ray glimpse at everybody else’s position. Genji and Symmetra are making their preparations at the side of the building while Tracer and Lucio are in the crowd, hiding in plain sight. Brigitte and Reinhardt and Lucio are waiting on the airship with Winston, ready to help in the charge if needed. That just leaves him and Siebren to find a way onto the spacecraft.

Harold tugs uncomfortably at the cap on his head. “I hate hats,” he grumbles.

“I know you don’t like hats, but you have to keep it together. We cannot afford to blow our cover now.”

For the purposes of infiltration, Siebren and Harold had to get disguises. For Harold, all it took was a change in his hairstyle, but for Siebren they had to go one step further. Apparently, Mei had a lot of fun putting make-up on Siebren, hiding his wrinkles and making him look younger. A cheap wig was considered, but it was ultimately decided that he looked less like himself with his bald head. Siebren, of course, had no idea how to respond to such a comment.

“_Sigma, are you there?”_ Harold hears Winston’s voice crackle from his ear piece.

“Sigma, present and in position.”

“_Good. Charon?”_

Harold can’t help but smile a little. The codename is probably unnecessary, but he has to admit, he can see why Siebren’s so attached to his own. It’s another life to breathe beneath his skin. Another little mask to hide behind. “Charon here, with Sigma,” he said.

“_Everybody is in position,” _Winston says._” If all goes absolutely well, you might be able to get into the spacecraft without any trouble, but the chances of that are unlikely at best. Most likely, you will have to fight some guards off. We still don’t know what Talon has in store.”_

“Talon has resources, but even they have difficulty when it comes to space travel,” Siebren says. “I only rescued Har—Charon on their behalf because they managed to scrounge up the necessary parts for an abandoned spacecraft and secure a private air yard, and from what I have heard that took well over a year’s worth of effort. I very much doubt they have the resources to get up to the moon by themselves. They need this mission to go smoothly.”

Winston hums in thought. “_Symmetra, do you think Lucheng might have connections to Vishkar or Talon?”_

_“I cannot speak for Talon, but I can assure you that we have petitioned to collaborate with Lucheng Interstellar on numerous occasions, and each time we have been turned down. They have been unwilling to see the true potential of hard light in space colonization.”_

_“So the answer is no,"_ Winston says.

Satya lets out a quiet sigh before saying, “_Correct. There are currently no ties between Lucheng and Vishkar. None that I am aware of.”_

“_Ladies and Gents, the show is starting,” _Tracer announces. “_Everybody ready? We gotta time this distraction perfectly, and then the show is on!” _

All around him, men and women and omnics in identical uniforms do their final checks on _Hou Yi 1_. Each person is designated one specific job on the spacecraft to complete and double-check. Nobody seemed to glance twice at Harold or Siebren, to his relief. Disguising themselves as Vishkar guards was definitely a stroke of genius on his part, even if he has to force himself to wear a hat throughout the ordeal.

Harold glances up to the glass walkway above him, where the astronauts will enter the spacecraft. Through his ear piece, Harold can hear a smattering of polite clapping. In the reflection of the glass, he can see Lucheng Interstellar’s presentation for himself, projecting through the news cameras. Within seconds he sees a projected portrait of his younger self. The CEO is speaking now, making some grand speech. Unlike last time, neither Moira nor Sanjay Korpal could be seen behind him. Instead, it was the small crew of astronauts chosen to pilot the spacecraft.

His eyesight still wasn’t that good even with the nanobots partially correcting his vision, but he could vaguely make out the astronauts’ faces. They were all young, wide-eyed Chinese men and women who looked like they’d rather be anywhere but at the press conference. It wasn’t too different from his own first mission up to the moon, nervous as hell, just waiting for everything to hurry up.

By Harold’s side, Siebren frowns deeply.

“What’s wrong?” Harold asks.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he murmurs. “Something is wrong.”

Harold is about to open his mouth to ask why, but then he hears a terrifying sound. It is the noise of the universe, the gaping maw before the black hole threatens to swallow the world whole, the calm piano arpeggios before the storm. He stares at Siebren wide-eyed, lips tight in morbid understanding.

And then he hears the screams.

Behind him, he sees the omnic workers jolt and jitter, their eyes glowing red in warning. They grab the workers and beat them up or throw them away. Siebren begins to float up, toeing away his shoes, hyperspheres forming in his hands as he flings them at the nearest omnic. Almost immediately, the omnics all turn not to Siebren but to Harold himself, red lights sparkling with resolution.

“Jade Hare…” they say in unison.

Harold takes the jet injector out from its hiding place, switches it on, and pulls the trigger. Bolts of lightning flash and flicker, zapping at all the omnics who dare come close, making them fall down one by one. With a grunt, Harold tosses his hat away and runs away before the cameras can pick up his face.

“Change of plans,” Harold calls into the communicator. “Omnics are on us. We have to break for the ship now.”

“_We’re on our way,_” Winston cries. “_Everyone, they’re on the attack. Change to plan B: we have to hijack the spacecraft.”_

“_I should be able to hack into the computer systems from here, but I’ll need help,” _Symmetra says.

“_I will watch her back,_” Genji says.

“_People haven’t noticed yet, but the omnics are acting real fishy. Me and Lucio’ll cause a distraction, Tracer style,” _Tracer says.

Harold almost doesn’t see the omnic rushing straight at him, but it explodes before his eyes with a well-placed volley by Siebren. His lips curl into a frown. “Pay attention,” Siebren says.

“I will, don’t worry,” Harold says.

As he runs, he shrugs the Vishkar uniform off to reveal the Overwatch uniform underneath. With a grunt, Harold connected the jet injector to his backpack, sighing when he felt the nanobots begin to activate, flowing out of his veins, into the backpack and filling the vial of the jet injector. Siebren shrugged his own uniform out, the heavier plates of his armour floating over his shoulders.

There’s a smaller contingent of omnic guards in front of them. They outnumber them, but Siebren summons a barrier in front of them to block the bullets. Harold runs forward, letting the lightning rip through their systems while Siebren launches volleys of hyperspheres as cover fire. When a bullet grazes Siebren’s armour and draws blood, Harold switches the mode of the jet injector and points the trigger at Siebren, a stream of nanobots healing Siebren’s wound in an instant.

When the final omnic guard falls to its knees, Harold’s earpiece crackles again. “_We’re on-route to your position,_” Winston cries.

“_The press sure is loving us_,” Tracer cries. The sounds of gunfire and more screams can faintly be heard. Some up-tempo nu-techno song is playing faintly in the background.

“_The spotlight loves us as well,_” Lucio laughs.

“Where do we go, champ?” Harold asks Winston.

“_You’ll have to go to the main hall and backstage. The stairs up to the spacecraft is there._” The comms crackles off.

“Let’s hope this distraction goes as planned,” Siebren grumbles to himself. “This mission is ruined if people realise who you are.”

“They won’t,” Harold says as his eyes begin to glow gold. “I’m not the man I used to be.”

“No,” Siebren laughs. “You’ve got just the right amount of him.”

They enter the building and go through the winding hallways of the staff areas. It’s fortunately empty, apart from the few fleeing staff members, but they are too busy escaping to give them any heed. When they get to the end, Siebren uses his powers to shove the doors open. Harold stops in his tracks at the sight before him. Everybody has already fled, leaving only Tracer, Lucio, and their attackers. Reaper and Moira are here with an army of omnics supporting them, launching their own offensive. The giant screen that used to show Harold’s younger face now displays a very familiar sugar skull icon.

It’s a nightmare come true. Talon is here.

Tracer and Lucio are fast, trying their hardest to fight, but no matter how many hits they can dish out, it all gets healed up in an instance by Moira’s biotic orb or by Reaper’s abnormal healing. But Reaper and Moira are too slow in trying to fight them. It’s literally a battle of speed versus attrition.

“We have to help them,” Harold says.

“We can’t. We don’t have much time.”

Above their heads is a few smaller screens, each connected to a different news channel. On the corner of each of the screens is a countdown for the spacecraft’s imminent launch. One by one, the countdown decreases dramatically from one hour to ten minutes. On screen, the astronauts are hurriedly putting on their spacesuits, making their hasty final checks.

In front of him, Tracer and Lucio are slowing down, losing their speed. Reaper and Moira also look tired, but not nearly tired enough. Moira’s blackened hand reaches out for Lucio, sapping the life away from him. They’re distracted. He can slip past, get to the spacecraft, and finish the mission. This will all be for nothing if Harold doesn’t get on the spacecraft. But he also wants to help them. He sees Siebren’s jaw clench, the same thought going through his head.

“I’ll see you in hell,” Reaper growls, pointing a shotgun square at Lucio’s face.

The blast goes off but Lucio is still standing and alive. Siebren is in front of him, absorbing the energy round and dispersing them into dust. Harold quickly moves to join him, a small stream of nanobots healing Lucio before he flicks the gun back to attack mode as Tracer escorts Lucio out. The omnics are zapped away, crumbling to the ground. In the corner of his eye he sees Siebren give a fleeting little smile before staring down his new foes. Harold does his best not to smile too wide.

“You two have been a real pain on my backside,” Reaper growls.

“Dr. Winston,” Moira sneers. “I shouldn’t be surprised you have picked an organization such as Overwatch to protect you, but I am surprised with you, Sigma. I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“The purpose of my work was always to build a better future,” Siebren declares. “Giving myself up to this cause is not injudicious.”

“And you think you did not have a purpose with Talon? We saw who you really are, that is why we set you free. We’ve cultivated your mind, your abilities. Overwatch has undermined brilliance in the past, and they will do it again. It’s a place of stagnation, where great minds go to die. Do you honestly think a change of leaders will not bring up the same issues?”

Siebren doesn’t speak, the hyperspheres in his palm flickering slightly, growing darker. His lips dip for just a second.

“You don’t belong with them. You belong in a different environment, where you can grow without restriction, where no one can judge you for the way that you think.” She glances coldly at Harold. “Where you are not led astray by those who don’t know what your best interests truly are.”

Harold can hear the hitch in Siebren’s throat, quiet but unmistakable. He feels those ocean blue eyes upon his body, breaking down his body molecule by molecule, trying to find the nonexistent needle in the haystack. He doesn’t dare turn his head and give Siebren the benefit of the doubt. He can’t hesitate now. All he can do is keep his weapon trained on Reaper and Moira.

“Dr. Winston doesn’t speak because he knows it’s the truth,” Moira continues. “He’s using you. You just don’t realise it.”

“And you didn’t use me?” Siebren spits.

“Perhaps, but we never mislead you. We’ve always wanted to help you develop your research and your abilities.” Moira turns to Harold. “Can you say the same, Dr. Winston?”

“All you care about is what he can do, not the person himself. You don’t care about his well-being. You don’t care about how he feels about this violence.”

“You’re not answering the question,” Moira smirks. “Might as well be an admission of your guilt.”

“And let you twist my words even more?” Harold asks.

Harold turns his head just a bit only to find Siebren stare blankly in front of him. He’s glancing between Moira and Harold, eyes wide, a myriad of emotions flickering and scintillating. Then, they narrow, and those ocean blue eyes turn cold as ice. With a wave of his hand, he lowers the barrier and floats forward.

“Siebren?”

He does not react as he joins Reaper and Moira’s side, his head ducked in submission. Moira’s smile is wide, a curious mix between glee and cruelty. Siebren only spares a single knowing glance in Harold’s direction. Harold’s eyes widen.

“Perhaps we should restart your mental conditioning. For now, I’ll let you decide if you want to fight or not.”

“I think I will fight,” Siebren utters, his expression growing cruel, “but not for you!”

Siebren raises his hand and breaks the shackles of gravity, taking him and Reaper and Moira high in the air. He’s floating above them, the universe’s song playing for deaf ears, the back of his head glowing as he summons the hyperspheres into fruition. One hits Reaper in the side while the other barely misses Moira. Siebren grits his teeth as he slams their bodies down, but they both turn into mist just before they land. Siebren floats down to the ground beside Harold, summoning the barrier once again as a volley of shotgun pellets flies.

Moira tries to go forward, but electricity crackles from Harold’s jet injector, making her keep her distance. Reaper rushes forward, looking for an angle, but Siebren flickers the barrier in and out, tilting gravity to keep them away.

From the main entrance Harold hears the heavy thud of Reinhardt’s armoured footsteps approaching. Reaper turns to Moira, his voice tinged with annoyance. “We can’t stay.”

“Very well,” Moira huffs, and the two of them disappear in a cloud of smoke. Siebren tries to chase after them, but it’s far too late. They are gone without a trace. There’s no way they can catch them now.

Harold glances up at the countdown. Five minutes left. “We have to get to the spacecraft quick!”

Siebren grumbles to himself but nods sharply. He has stopped floating now, bare feet running on the floor as they head backstage and up the staircase. When they get to the top floor, the elevator next to them chimes. Winston, Genji, and Symmetra are there, rushing out behind them. There’s a new wave of Lucheng Interstellar guards in front of them, but together they cut them down to size easily.

“What’s the situation?” Harold asks.

“Reinhardt and Brigitte are at the front, distracting everybody,” Winston says. “Echo tried to hack into the spacecraft but she couldn’t. Athena tried as well and failed. We’ll have to launch it manually.”

“You know that’s impossible for Gen IV Lunar spacecrafts. I can’t fly it with Siebren alone.”

“That’s why I am coming along,” Winston says. “We’ll need all hands on deck.”

“You will require my assistance as well,” Symmetra adds. “I will not allow any more chaos or disruptions to this plan.”

“I’ll make sure no one gets into the spacecraft,” Genji says.

“But we need to get into the spacecraft ourselves and make sure they don’t activate the emergency kill switch from the control tower,” Harold says.

“Then we’ll just have to make sure we’re quick enough that they can’t activate it,” Siebren says.

They run through the hallway and into a giant room lined with glass windows. The astronauts are there, waving to the cameras but they stop in their tracks when they see them. They shout their orders in Mandarin, but Siebren curls his fingers and suspends them in the air like they’re ragdolls. They can’t do anything but speak, a litany of foul words escaping their mouths. “_Bàoqiàn_,” Harold smiles nervously as he rushes forward.

From the room he walks down the small runway to the spacecraft. In front of him he can see the interior of the spacecraft, which should lead up to the payload, where he can pilot with Siebren. For a moment, time is in slow motion as the lights of a thousand cameras flash onto him. As he turns his head to the glass walls, he sees his reflection staring back at him. Except it’s not really his reflection. There’s a trace of the man the public know as Harold Winston, but it’s overshadowed by someone else. A man he knows has been residing in his bones for decades. It is this man that is control, this hero that lives and breathes strength. The real Harold Winston.

He heads inside and makes his way to the payload area, getting into the front seat. The buttons and dials and switches are second nature to him, his hands moving fluidly as he gets everything prepared.

Outside he hears the sounds of a fight erupting, of bullets and blades dancing in a deadly ballet. Winston comes in soon, then Symmetra, taking their positions near the rear. Faintly, Harold hears Reinhardt’s sharp laugh of joy, and the unmistakable sound of a mace hitting a metal body.

“Where’s Sigma?” Winston asks.

Harold’s about to ask the same question when suddenly the controls all turn red. “Get him in here now! They’re already starting the emergency kill switch.”

“The guards have him trapped!” Symmetra calls. “We have to go now.”

“I literally can’t survive the trip without him. The G-force will kill me! We need him here!” Harold taps at his communicator. “Sig, you need to get yourself over here.”

“_I’m…trying!”_ There’s a loud huff, as Siebren scrambles in, shutting the door behind him. There are rhythmic thumps as people try to hit and shoot at the door, but it remains stable. He quickly flies over to the seat next to Harold, strapping himself in. His fingers dance over the dashboard, his expression stoic in thought. “Engine temperatures?”

“We don’t have time,” Harold says. “We have to launch now before the emergency kill switch grounds us for good.”

Siebren begins to go through the motions, but is repeatedly stopped by a klaxon alarm. “It’s too late,” Siebren grumbles. “There’s nothing here that can stop it. We’ve failed.”

Just as Siebren says this, the red screen suddenly flickers in and out. In its place, a purple sugar skull appears. From Harold’s communicator, Harold hears a nasally, abrasive laugh. From the way Siebren jumps in his seat, it seems he’s the only one who can hear it.

“_Ground Control to Major Tom. You really made the grade here._”

“Sombra?” Harold gasps.

“_What? You thought I wouldn’t help you out? Shame, Dr. Winston, shame. Hey, can I call you Harold? Harry? I like the ring of Harry.”_

The sugar skull symbol fades and the controls are back to normal. The roar of the engines is almost deafening. A computerized voice is counting down from twenty. Amidst the noise Harold laughs shrilly in relief.

“I’ll let you call me whatever you want if you can get us to the moon and back. I assume you want a favour after this?”

“_Perhaps,_” Sombra says, in a voice that made it very clear what her true intentions are, “_but way later. You wanna pay me back now? Get back down alive and take some photos for me. Oh, and keep Sigma alive too.”_

Harold turns to Siebren and smirks confidently. From his vantage point he can see everybody watches the spacecraft in morbid fascination. The countdown is ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“Ready to head back to the stars?” Siebren asks.

Five. Four. Three.

“You know what?” Harold says.

Two. One.

“I think I finally am.”

The spacecraft rattles and bobs. The engine gushes as it propels them upwards towards the sky. As they break through the atmosphere, the gravity engines kick in, the outer shell breaking away. As they get higher, the G-force gets almost overwhelming for Harold but he sees the plate behind Siebren’s head glow as he keeps the gravitational forces at bay. But even with Siebren’s help, it’s still a bit too much for his fragile body. He gets a glimpse of the Earth, wide and blue and glorious, and is able to give a weak smile before he falls unconscious.

When Harold finally wakes up, the spacecraft is already docking itself in Sector 06, right next to the Observatory. By his side, everybody else are preparing for their departure. He’s groggy, but it quickly fades away when he sees the Earth, once so near, now far away. Winston approaches him, nervous but trying his best not to appear it.

“We’re here,” he says.

Harold lets out a small smile as he grasps him tenderly on the shoulder. “No,” Harold replies. “We’re back home.”

They go through the standard decontamination process—Harold first, followed by Siebren, Symmetra, and finally Winston, who took the time to explain the process to her. The rooms are fortunately still sealed properly, as intel suggested. The number pad for many of the doors are malfunctioning and damaged, but the one to the Observatory still works. Harold places his hand on the scanner, and it opens with an audible swish.

Harold can’t help but gasp as he takes in the sight. It’s almost pristine, like it hasn’t changed at all. The Observatory doors are slightly open, the telescope facing directly at the Earth. While Winston shows Symmetra the telescope, Harold moves further ahead. Far on the other side, Harold’s office sits untouched, fake plants still green as ever, files in the same place he left them all these years ago. He walks over to his desk, his fingers catching on the framed photograph of himself and a baby Winston. His thumb trails over his younger face. He looked so innocent and naïve back then.

“I can’t even recognize myself,” he whispers.

“Harold?” Siebren asks.

He shakes his head lightly and places the photograph down. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s a lot. Being back here.”

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“In a lot of different ways,” Harold utters. “This place was my home away from home, the stepping stone paving the way for the future of space travel. It’s tragic, seeing it all in ruins like this.”

“You are not the only one. I always thought this place was beautiful, and it still is, but it’s now so cold and empty. A husk of its former self.”

It’s more than that, Harold thinks, but if he says that out loud, Siebren will expect clarification, and Harold doesn’t think he can give Siebren clarification. He takes his old files and tucks them under his arm. The four of them meet up and they head out of the Observatory.

As they walk through the empty hallways, Harold can hear the faint noises of the apes and chimps, muttering behind closed doors. Outside the Observatory, he sees the extent of the rebellion’s destruction. Appliances in the Commissary are broken and rifled through, the peanut butter jars empty and smashed onto the ground. Furniture blocks many of the doors to the other sectors, while most of the personal rooms for the scientists have had their number pads smashed beyond repair.

He doesn’t know how to feel about seeing all this. He thought he was prepared, but it’s another thing altogether to see the gorilla paw prints on the door to Hammond’s room, schematics lying haphazardly on the floor. If he was any weaker than he was, he might cry, but he’s got a mission to complete and loved ones to support him. His hand reaches for Winston’s, squeezing softly.

“Where do we need to go?” Symmetra asks.

“The Hangar,” Harold says. “We need to shut down all the data and monitoring systems, so we need to get to the servers. From the Hangar, we can get there easily enough.”

“A little bit too late for that,” a voice says.

In the Training Facility, smiling cruelly, is a man that looks almost identical to Harold himself, but with some differences. Their clothes are the typical Horizon uniform with a lab coat on top, the sleeves rolled above their elbows—a complete contrast to Harold’s own Overwatch uniform. Their hair is in a similar haircut but slightly darker, giving a salt and pepper look. A rectangular pair of glasses framed the imposter’s face, no cybernetic implants or scars or tubes to wreak havoc over his skin. Even the eye colour was wrong, a dark blue rather than Harold's dark brown eyes. It’s like someone has used an age filter on a younger picture of Harold. This imposter is too clean, too perfect, but it's not an omnic or a robot. Only a human could ever smile like that, condescending and innocent all at the same time.

Harold doesn’t even hesitate raising his jet injector at the imposter, who immediately throws their hands up. He’s confused as to their weird actions, until he sees it. A camera, hidden in the corner of the room, red light blinking on and recording.

No, not just recording. Broadcasting. Thousands, if not millions, are probably watching this right now. 

“Who are you?” Harold seethes.

The imposter smiles. “I’m Dr. Harold Winston,” he says, “and I believe you have been trying to steal my work, you imposter.”

Wide eyes fall on Harold's body but he ignores them all. He stares at his mirror image, an unspeakable rage clamming his throat shut, golden eyes staring down fake blue eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ There will probably only be two more chapters after this one. It's been a journey writing this, but I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. The conclusion should hopefully be what you've been waiting for _


	13. Charon and Sigma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Alphawave13), [tumblr](https://alphawave-writes.tumblr.com/), or check out my [Sigma/Harold discord server](https://discord.gg/DHh26tU)_

It’s almost like gazing into a phantom. For the longest time, his mind adrift in that accursed facility, he often wondered how Harold would look like if he were alive. That was long before he knew Harold was alive, of course, long before he had any control over his abilities and long before rescue would ever come for him. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, having someone on the other side to comfort him. He knew Harold’s mannerisms well enough. It was a simple thing of transplanting that to a new body. The Harold his mind concocted was not unlike the one that stood before him right now, a voice as soft as silk and eyes that perfectly reflected the stars in the sky.

It’s a stark contrast to the Harold by his side, scarred physically and mentally by the Earth and the Moon and the space in between. This Harold, who has lost the innocent naivete of his younger years, who dirtied his hands with blood in a moment of fury, who chose the moniker of Charon and has stuck by his side all this time. This Harold stares at his counterpart in absolute hatred.

“Don’t play games with us. Who are you really?”

“I think you’ve got other things to worry about other than my identity. Your reputation, for example, if you attack me. It won’t look good on Overwatch if you do anything. And that’s not to mention this.” He puts his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and reveals a small USB. Sigma is only able to catch its bright purple colour before the imposter pockets it once more. “You’ll be wanting this, won’t you? All the files have been backed up in here. And you know what, I’ll do you a favour. I’ll do what you want, and we can all leave here in peace.”

As he says that, there’s a large creak as metal breaks. Computer screens all around them begin to fizzle. The server is down. All communication systems are down. No one can contact Horizon ever again.

Winston’s brows wrinkle. “What do you want?”

The imposter smiles impishly. “What I just said. No one will ever know the truth about Harold Winston. The only remaining evidence of your existence and your research is on this USB. You have what you want. Let me have what I need.”

“You know we can’t allow you to do that. That research is important,” Winston says.

“You really want to stand in the way of science?” He shakes his head. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“You are _not _me,” Harold growls.

The imposter stares at Harold for a few seconds before chuckling softly. “No. I’m not. I am Harold, but you? You’re the Jade Hare, Specimen: 31. If you really are with Overwatch, I bet you’ve been given another codename on top of all that.”

Harold grits his teeth but says nothing. His cheeks are slightly pink in anger, or perhaps shame. Sigma glares at the imposter.

“The world wants me to return to Earth, _I _want to return to Earth. They don’t want this Jade Hare nonsense, and they certainly don’t want Overwatch because they are looking into the future. I can give them that future because I see it too. I share their vision. And I will do anything to make sure it comes true.”

Sigma wants to fight back, but his allies do not move and so he does not either, not even to protect Harold’s honour. Even if he was not part of Overwatch, he does not know if he has the strength to fight even a figure in Harold’s image. He wants to hate this man like Harold does, but he loves Harold too much, and that love extends to people that bear his appearance. He's not strong enough, of mind and spirit.

Beside him, Harold crouches down and drops the files on the ground. He holsters his jet injector and walks forward purposely. The other Harold quirks an eyebrow behind his rectangular frames.

“So, I’m not Harold then?” The real one asks.

“You don’t have to be. Not anymore,” the imposter says.

Harold’s lips pull up into a smirk. “Good.”

Suddenly, with ferocious speed he dashes forward and shoves his palm into the imposter’s frames, disintegrating before his very eyes. The imposter steps back, falling to the ground in surprise as Harold grapples him, punching once, twice, before the imposter disappears, leaving behind a robotic endoskeleton. The USB clatters harmlessly onto the ground. The imposter reaches for it but Harold is faster, hissing loudly as he shakes his hand, when suddenly Sigma hears a metallic whirr followed by the clang of metal against the hard floors. Sigma turns around, just barely avoiding a lunge from his imposter. With his powers, he breaks bits of the floor, smashing them together into a boulder before flinging it at his opponent. The imposter is smashed into smithereens, reverting back into its original robotic appearance. A third robot behind it takes his appearance.

“What are you?” Sigma growls.

There’s the puff of an explosion as Symmetra zaps another robot. “Cease your games this instant.”

The imposter laughs maliciously. Their voice has taken on a metallic tint. “Still haven’t figured it out, Satya? It’s a shame. I thought you were much better than that.”

“What…?”

The imposter laughs again, but not in Harold’s voice. The illusion flickers as their appearance morphs and warps. His hair turns into a lighter shade of brown while his skin turns dark as mocha. Their face twists and turns until it no longer resembles Harold, clothes transforming from a lab coat into a familiar looking uniform made of purples and whites.

“Sanjay Korpal?” Symmetra gasps.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Sanjay says. “You had so much potential. You could’ve grown to be a great agent for Vishkar, possibly even the best. We could’ve helped the world be reborn. Make sure no one ever has to suffer like we did.”

“You are _not _the real Sanjay.”

“Of course I’m not. I’m back down on Earth, but I’ve got my helpers up here.” Sanjay smiles. “Funny what a bit of connection can do for you. Hard light and space technology really do go hand in hand. Perhaps the next step for Vishkar is to collaborate with Lucheng Interstellar more in the future.”

Sigma stares at the robotic endoskeleton, vaguely human in shape, a camouflage device imprinted on their head. Beside the device was a flickering dot. All the other bodies have their own flickering light, beating to the same rhythm. A rhythm that does not repeat. Sigma’s seen this technology before, when Lucheng first tried to establish contact with Horizon shortly after the gorilla rebellion. The robots worked on the same neural network, not unlike a hive mind.

“We are meant to bring peace and order,” Symmetra says. An orb of hard light penetrates through a mob of robots, collapsing in a line like domino pieces. “This is not the way of Vishkar.”

“No, Satya. This _is _the way of Vishkar. You just never saw it for what it truly is.”

The other robots charge at Winston, who stands his ground, ready to fight, only for the robots to all run past him. They smash their heavy bodies to the glass. An alarm whines in the background, an automated voice calling throughout the speakers warning people to avoid damaging the glass. The robots ignore this, charging again and again, the voice repeating its warning again and again. Winston takes off his glasses, growling menacingly as his skin turns crimson, swiping the robots away with his arms, but it doesn’t work. There’s too many of them.

Sanjay smiles cruelly as he turns to Sigma, eyebrows raising as if daring him to attack. Sigma’s lips twist into a scowl as he hurls the hyperspheres at him, destroying the robot, but soon another robot takes his appearance, and then another. The laugh that Sanjay gives is cruel, almost mocking.

“He’s trying to trigger a lockdown!” Harold shouts. “Stop him from destroying the glass. If he breaks it, we won’t be able to get back to the spaceship.”

“You’ve got other things to worry about,” Sanjay says. “Did you really think that USB has what you’re looking for? I’ve got copies. All I need to do is get the encryption key and transmit it back down to Earth, and soon we will know all about your secrets.” His eyes flit to Harold. “You really want to risk that?”

Harold shoots electricity from his jet injector, frying Sanjay. The other robots all begin to take the appearance of the fake Harold as they continue to ram themselves into the glass. Sigma joins Harold, Satya, and Winston in destroying as many as they can, a mountain of bodies by their feet, but the robots still come. It feels endless. Tiring. Sigma can feel his grasp over his abilities slip in exhaustion.

“_Please avoid damaging or tampering with the gla—please avoid damage—please avoi—please av—ple—ple—ple—”_

The voice dies, and the alarm stops for a second. The lights power down, the only illumination coming from the glowing lunar surface outside and the brilliant blue Earth. Then a new sound echoes, and the world is bathed in blood red light.

_“HORIZON LUNAR COLONY INTEGRITY BREACHED. INITIATING LOCKDOWN. INITIATING LOCKDOWN._”

The sounds of shutters rolling down masks the cruel laugh Sanjay gives. Winston is the first to act, leaping out of the way of the robots, glasses returning to his face. He grabs ahold of Satya, and leaps forward back to the observatory and the spaceship.

Sigma is about to follow them when he hears Harold yell. The robots, having completed their job in initiating the lockdown, are now mobbing him. With a wave of his hand, Sigma breaks the chains of gravity and lifts them above Harold. He rushes over, helping Harold stand.

“We have to get on the spaceship before the shutters close. We don’t have time,” Sigma orders.

“I can’t,” Harold says.

“Why not?!”

“The gorillas. They’ll die if we don’t stop the lockdown. The shutters will corner off each individual section of the colony. If they’re relying on the self-sufficiency stations, the farms, the medical stations, they'll all be locked off. No one else will be able to get back here to save them in time and if Sanjay has corrupted all the robots, they won’t be able to do any repairs. I have to help them.”

“Those damned apes have done nothing for you, there is no need to sacrifice yourself for that selfish lot.” Sigma gingerly cups Harold’s face. “Don’t do this. I’m not losing you again. Come back with us before it’s too late.”

Harold frowns. “Siebren,” he starts.

“D-don’t do this,” Sigma whispers. “I’m not as smart as you. Not as strong. I can’t do this.”

“Help me, Siebren. We can do this together.” He takes Sigma’s hand and grips it firmly. Amidst the red, Harold’s golden eyes are as warm as the sun. “My nanobots and your powers, we can be unstoppable.”

“Dr. Winston! Dr. de Kuiper!” Winston calls.

Sigma grits his teeth, tears beading from his eyes. He turns to Winston and Satya, a pained expression on his face, his throat impossibly tight.

Harold smiles bittersweetly. “Get to the spaceship and get out of here, sport. Before it’s too late.”

Winston’s eyes widen in understanding, then horror. “Dad!”

“I’m sorry, champ.”

Sigma opens his hand and uses the force of gravity to push Winston and Satya away, back towards the door to the observatory. Winston stares at Harold for a few seconds from the other side, just as the shutter closes over the door. Winston bangs frantically at the door but apart from some small dents, it does not budge. There is no noise for a minute or two, and then there is the sound of the spacecraft disembarking, blasting off into the cold regions of space.

By Sigma’s side, Harold gives a small smile. Sigma huffs. “I am going to regret this.”

“I know.” Quieter, he says, “Thank you.”

One side of Sigma’s lips quirks up as he brings the robots down to the ground, smashing them into bits. With his powers, he clumps them all up into a ball and hurls it at the shutter to the next sector of Horizon, cracking it open. They run through the wreckage and into the next section.

Harold runs forward, Sigma using his powers to destroy the shutters that block their way. He can see Harold’s eyes flit through the different sectors, mind racing.

“What do we have to do, Charon?”

“We’ve got two options: seal the glass or stop the emergency lockdown. Even if you destroy all the shutters and unlock all the different sections, the base will be losing oxygen. Depending on how much oxygen is leaking, we’ve got anywhere between minutes to weeks.”

“And how much oxygen is leaking?”

“I don’t know,” Harold says. “All I know is we need to head to maintenance. Sector 02. Best case scenario, one of the systems might be able to put an emergency seal in. Second best, there’s a kit for us to do it manually.”

“And if neither of those things are possible? If we can’t get there for whatever reason?”

Harold glances nervously at Sigma.

“Harold,” he utters slowly, “there is a way for us to get back down to Earth, is there?”

Harold doesn’t respond. He keeps his head straight as Sigma blasts down the next shutter doors. 

As they race forward, Sigma sees glimpses of the other primates, staring curiously at them. He sees the different sectors, once built for human research and human needs, now repurposed to suit primate needs. Farms are at maximum capacity, growing a variety of fruits and vegetables, the auto-dispenser distributing the rare bit of meat. Clothes are ripped to make hammock nests. And there are so many more of them, so many young ones that can make even his heart melt at the sight. He has to admit, he’s worried that he may have to fight them off, but they’re all looking strangely at him.

No…not at him. At Harold. They’re looking at Harold like he’s a stranger.

Harold glances over his shoulder. “Keeping up?”

Sigma huffs. “May I be the first to say that Horizon was structured horrendously? Why have all your departments in specific sectors?”

“Blame Lucheng, not me,” Harold laughs.

When they finally get to the maintenance sector, Harold immediately dashes for the main office where the computers are. He fiddles with one of them for a minute, his face lighting up.

“The system is still in place," Harold says excitedly. "And not just the one to cease the lockdown, I can stop Sanjay too. All I need to do is—”

Sigma is about to join Harold at the computer when suddenly he feels a pair of strong arms shove him forcefully to the wall, one hand clamped tightly over his neck. His eyes widen as he takes in the massive gorilla holding him like he weighs nothing.

“Simon?!” Harold shouts.

“Why are you here?” Simon’s gorilla eyes narrow on Harold. “You,” he seethes.

“Let him go!”

Before Simon can respond, Sigma hears the distinct clank of metal on floor as multiple robots charge in, bearing the imposter Harold’s appearance. Harold tries to get his jet injector ready, but it’s swiped out of his hands. He’s shoved to the floor, fists desperately trying to get some damage on the metal surface underneath, only to return battered and bruised. Simon doesn’t react, just stares at the scene with mild confusion.

Sigma’s not sure if the oxygen rapidly escaping his body is from Simon’s grip or from the colony itself. He hears another siren, a different warning blaring over the speakers, which he assumes it about the oxygen levels. All he can concentrate on is the area where that little flickering dot would be behind the camouflage. He wants to fight back, but he can't. His powers are failing him with every breath he attempts. His body gets weaker with every second that passes.

“You want to be dead so bad, don’t you. You really have a death wish,” one of the imposter robots snarls.

Harold doesn’t look at the robots. He’s staring at Simon, making a complicated hand gesture. Simon’s grip weakens slightly. Harold’s doing his own plan, Sigma realizes, but is it the same as the one he’s thinking? What is Harold thinking? Why can’t he figure out what Harold is thinking?

“I should have done this earlier," the robots say simultaneously. "Back when you were in Oasis. I chose to keep you alive, because I thought you’d be more useful alive to us. But that’s my mistake, one that I shall rectify.”

“S-Simon,” Harold gasps. “A-air…lock.”

Simon’s lips twist into an unreadable expression, and then his skin turns crimson, letting go of Sigma to swipe at the imposters. Harold is able to scramble free, racing to the computer. His fingers dance on the keyboard while Sigma catches his breath, trying to make sense of this battle between robots and gorilla. Nothing makes any more sense. But then when did anything make sense in his life? Harold types away, “One moment, give me one moment…yes!”

With his words, the lights go out once again. When it returns, everything is the same clinical white. From Sigma’s angle, he can still see the shutter to the next section still firmly in place. Sanjay turns to Harold, shoving Simon away to race after Harold. He is fast, able to close the distance quickly, only for the robot to stop dead in its tracks mid-stride. It falls down with a heavy thud by Harold’s feet.

Sigma turns to Harold, not sure if the expression on his face is amazed or terrified. He assumes it’s the former when Harold chuckles quietly. “These robots are still the original service bots from decades ago. No matter how much Vishkar or Talon might have tampered with them, you can’t get rid of that killswitch. They won’t be moving or transmitting anything anytime soon.”

“You noticed the hive mind network too?” Sigma asks.

“You’re not the only smart guy here,” Harold chuckles.

Simon is still staring at Harold. His skin returns to a dull grey as he brushes himself off. There’s no more anger in his expression, but his face is not entirely kind. “I have built up my people here on this land. If you think we are giving it over to you—”

“I’m not here for you or the others,” Harold replies. “This is your home now. If you know how to get us back to Earth, I’ll make sure no human will ever disturb you.”

Simon gives a soul-piercing glare at Harold for a few seconds before retreating. His expression is stoic. “Fix the mess you made and get out of here. This is our territory now. The moon belongs to the animals.”

It’s not the peaceful conclusion Sigma hopes for, but considering this was the very gorilla that threw Harold out of the airlock the first time, he thinks it’s as much as he can hope for. He's not sure even he can win in a fight against gorillas, much less genetically-engineered ones with a vendetta against humans.

Sigma rounds up all of the robots into a pile near one of the airlocks while Harold undoes the lockdown and seals the crack in the glass. With Sigma’s abilities he forces the weight of gravity on the endoskeletons, crushing them beyond repair and recognition. All except one, that is. There is one endoskeleton that is still maintaining the Harold disguise. Using the pieces of the other endoskeletons, Sigma is able to take a rudimentary picture and send it back to Lucheng Interstellar. The assumption will be that Harold Winston is dead for real this time. Sanjay won’t be able to use Harold’s appearance for his own purposes anymore.

They have a small audience now comprised of the other test subjects, all bigger and older than when Sigma last remember seeing them, silently judging from a far distance. Sigma catches Harold gazing upon them sadly but it is clear there is no love lost between the animals. Though Harold loved them like family, they only saw Harold as the torturer who got away. One wrong move and the animals will attack again. Sigma would comfort Harold, but he knows it's not necessary. This life is no longer his. In more ways than one, the Harold Winston that Siebren de Kuiper fell in love with did die on the moon.

The glass sealed, a warning sign of common lexigrams placed next to the crack, Harold helps Sigma push the robot pieces into the airlock. Harold puts in his code, and the pieces fly off into the moon, scattering across the crater. Not the most environmentally friendly way of disposing the robots, but the safest given the circumstances.

“There is one escape pod in the Hangar,” Simon says. “I do not know if it is functional. You will have to repair it yourself.”

“And if it can’t be repaired? If it doesn’t work?”

“Then we’ll throw you out the airlock just like last time.” His voice is neutral but the way his brows lower make it clear he will make good on his promise.

Slowly they make their way to the Hangar. The escape pod in question is in fact an old satellite. There is no propulsion system, and very little in the ways of comfort and safety, but it can be repurposed to be habitable and be directed to Earth. With the combined efforts of their powers there is a possibility they may be able to survive the impact. It’s far from ideal, and the chance of death is high, but Simon’s threat still hangs in the air. There is no way that Overwatch will be able to requisition another spacecraft in the near future.

“It’s funny, being up here, fixing this up. Wouldn’t have considered doing this the last time I was up in space,” Sigma says.

“How so?” Harold asks.

“The last time I was away from Earth, I was trying to harness a black hole. It was all to do with space travel, actually. Considering what I know now, I probably harnessed something more akin to a wormhole than an actual black hole. I saw it both in reality and in my mind’s eye. If I try, I can almost hear its melody.”

“You think you could do that? Make a wormhole to get us back home?”

Sigma frowns. “You don’t know what it was like when I had my accident. Everything happened all too fast and then far too slow. I felt like I spent a second and a million years trapped in that moment,. I don’t know what will happen if I try to summon it again. I have to get the math right, I need to make sure all the equations are correct.” Sigma gazes at the floor. “Truth is, I am afraid of that thing. Have been ever since.”

Harold puts a hand on Sigma’s shoulder. “Let’s get this thing done then. We’ll keep it as a last resort.”

Sigma smiles. “Sure.”

They continue working side by side on the old satellite. Sigma doesn’t know how much time has passed, just that his body is slow to respond when he hears the ringing alarms of the hangar doors open. Outside is a construction robot, designed for the continued repair of Horizon Lunar Colony, but it’s long since been dormant since the rebellion.

Or at least it should. But all too fast and all too slow Sigma realises that it's moving. And it's charging at them.

Harold whips his head around, readying his jet injector, but he’s too slow to react. He’s pinned to the ground, heavy metal trapping his leg with an audible crack, making his shriek in guttural pain. The gorillas hoot and screech in anger, going red in rage as they try to attack this new intruder, but the construction robot swipes them away with ease. Sigma fires a volley of hyperspheres at the robot, but he’s also shoved to the ground. The voices in his head are drowned out by the alarms blaring above his body and the weak groans that escape his lips.

The construction robot picks the two of them up like they weigh nothing, rapidly moving to the hangar doors. Air is rapidly escaping from them, gravity threatening to pull them out into the moon’s atmosphere. Sigma needs to concentrate to use his powers, but he needs one look of Harold, blood oozing out of his leg, and his breathing gets heavier and quicker. Gravity is fluctuating, but it doesn’t affect the massive construction robot, built specifically for use in multiple different gravity conditions.

The voice that comes out of its voice box is filled with static, crackling noisily, and barely audible. “You make my work worthless. You ruined months of work and years worth of research, and for what? To hide your precious little nanobots for a little bit longer?”

Harold punches until his knuckles are bleeding. “Siebren!”

"If you want to be dead, Harold Winston—"

Sigma desperately flings whatever piece of equipment his powers can raise at the robot, but it only dents it slightly. The construction robot is still functioning.

“—then I’ll make your wish come true.”

“Siebren, make the wormh—”

The construction robot throws them out into the cold reaches of the moon and shuts the door. Even if the door wasn’t locked, they’re floating uncontrollably, the low gravity propelling them far away, too far away to get back in time. They make no sound when their bodies finally hit the coarse surface of the moon. No sound can be transmitted from this world without air. The only thing Sigma can hear is not the universe’s whisperings, not the incessant voices in his head, but his own thoughts, as clear as crystal.

_We’re going to die._

Harold stares at Sigma with golden eyes as he tries to crawl to him. It’s not easy in the microgravity, but he floats over, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Sigma feels the soft glow of the nanobots surround his body and enter his bloodstream. Suddenly his one breath feels like it can last so much longer, but it will only buy him seconds. It’s lunar day on the moon, and the temperature is so hot it feels like he’s melting. His skin is sticking to his armour. He's burning alive from the intense heat.

Harold is mouthing some words at him. The same thing he was trying to say before they got sucked out. In this moment, time all too fast and all too slow, he’d tell Harold his greatest fears if he could. He’d tell Harold that the only reason he’s never tried to summon the black hole is because he’s afraid. He’d tell Harold the only reason he never tried to summon a worm hole is because he’s afraid. So much of his life after that tragic accident has been dictated by fear, both the ones he acknowledged and the ones he didn’t.

He almost expects the universe to whisper its dark magic at him and tell him to give up his mind once again, but it remains silent this time. It’s his decision, the universe says in its silence, to die on the moon by the side of his beloved or risk his mind once again and open up the wormhole and take them back to Earth. He wants to give up. He wants to be weak by Harold’s side one final time. He wants to, because he is a villain who has done nothing good in his life, regardless of his intentions. Villains deserve to die at the edge of space, boiled and frozen alive.

But he’s not a villain anymore. He has people who love him. People who care for him and about him. People who look up to Overwatch and its members as a symbol of hope. If he inspires just a little bit of heroism, just enough of a spark to incite curiosity in just one person out there in the world, he can’t be a villain.

He wraps his arms around Harold, humming a noiseless tune that no wind can carry. A wormhole appears, growing between their chests, threatening to consume them. In that wormhole he sees the bridge between time and space. He sees the infinite realities and the infinite version of himself warped and changed through the efforts of infinite realities. Except it’s not just infinite versions of him, but also infinite versions of Harold and Overwatch, all smiling brightly. He thinks of Watchpoint: Gibraltar and the medical wing with Mercy and the training areas with the practice robots and that comfortable king-sized bed and the glimmering waters of the sea, the moon high above their head.

In a flash, they are gone, disappearing from the universe for a moment.

* * *

When Sigma wakes up, he thinks he might have died for real. All he can see is blinding white surrounding his vision. He sits up, wincing as pain shoots up his back and all throughout his skin. He glances down, his body wrapped in bandages like a mummy, drips attached at his forearm. Slowly he peaks under the bandages. His skin is noticeably burned, but in the final stages of healing. In days, maybe a week, it'll look like normal flesh once more. 

He's alive, he realises slowly. He's alive and breathing and safe. 

“Dr. de Kuiper,” a voice sighs. “We were so worried about you.”

Sigma blinks as the light fades into acceptable levels. He’s in a hospital bed, surrounded by many of the members of Overwatch. Mercy is there, as is Tracer, Symmetra, Genji, Sojourn, and many others. He's almost certain the entirety of the reformed Overwatch team is there in this room, except there are some noticeable exceptions. Winston is not here. Neither is Harold. 

“Where…?” He coughs loudly, his throat impossibly parched. On instinct, Mercy hands him a glass of water with some kind of tablet fizzing inside.

“Drink,” she says.

He nods slowly, being careful to down it all. He wipes his mouth, relieved that the skin on his face feels relatively normal.

“We found you both on the cliffside here on Gibraltar, unconscious. A gust of wind could have blown you off the cliff altogether if we didn’t catch you as soon as we did. You had severe burns on your skin and a few of your internal organs. I had to work day and night to save you both.”

“He’s…he’s alive, isn’t he?”

Mercy’s face falls for just a second. The rest of the crowd glance nervously at each other.

Suddenly there’s the sound of the door opening loudly, crashing into the wall. Mercy glares at the intruder.

“S-sorry about that,” Winston smiles nervously.

Sigma turns his head slowly to see Harold himself, scarred but smiling, tears beading in his eyes. With Winston's help, he slowly approaches Sigma’s bed, putting a hand on his leg.

“Thank god you’re OK," Harold says. 

He can’t stop himself. He turns his body and pulls Harold into a crushing hug. Harold’s laugh turns into a groan as he pats Sigma incessantly. “O-OK, big guy, let me down.”

There’s a few quiet chuckles from the others as Sigma hesitantly lets go of Harold. When Harold relaxes, Sigma punches him lightly on the arm. Harold yelps, more in surprise than pain. 

His gaze sweeps over Harold, from the nasal catheter and his grey hair down to his casual clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes settles on the newest addition on Harold’s person. One of his legs is in a cast, messages written out on blue and green marker on the bandages. The wheelchair he’s sitting on is old and decrepit but usable. “Turns out nanobots can’t do much about broken bone,” Harold explains. “Compound fracture like you wouldn’t believe. I saw my leg in the x-ray and it was like a jigsaw puzzle. But I’ll be good to go in a month or two, depending on how fast the nanobots work.”

“That is if it sets in the correct position,” Mercy counters. “You must be very careful to ensure that the bone does not set in the incorrect position. If it does, you won't be able to walk or run properly ever again."

"I'll be fine," Harold insists. "I'm sure I will with your nanobiotics. I've been doing some reading on them, and I'm thinking it might be possible to combine them with my nanorobots. Nanobiotic nanobots. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

Mercy gives a hint of a smile before it gives way for professional stoicism. Sigma turns to Mercy slowly. "Is it possible I can talk to Harold? Alone?"

Mercy isn't even able to open her mouth before Tracer blinks forward, pushing Mercy towards the door with an overenthusiastic grin. "Not a problem, Doc, we'll get out of your hair. Come on, everybody. Hut two, hut two. Leave the space dads to do their space dad things." 

On Tracer's orders and her incessant shoving, everybody crams themselves through the door and shut it behind them. Harold looks up at Sigma, his soft smile growing coquettish. "Guess we're alone now."

"Indeed," Sigma says softly. 

There are a thousand different things Sigma can say to show his appreciation and his love and his relief and his hurt. There are so many things for him to say, but he doesn't say them. He just takes Harold's hand into his own, feels the warmth spread through his body, and knows deep in his soul that this is the man he loves, and whom he will love in return. 

"Never make me do that again," Sigma whispers. "And never risk your life like that again."

Harold grips Sigma's hand tightly, his smile as bright as the light of a 1000 suns. "No promises, big guy. I'll always help the ones that I love and care about."

"Does that include me?"

"That will always include you," Harold says. He places a tender peck to the back of Sigma's hand. "From now till death do us part."

Sigma laughs weakly. "I don't think even death can tear us apart."

Harold stays for the rest of the day, chatting about everything and nothing. Sooner or later, the two of them fall asleep, Sigma in his bed, and Harold in his wheelchair, their heads leaning towards each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ Next chapter will be the epilogue. It's been really fun writing this guys, but it's time for this story to come to an end. Expect the happiest, fluffiest ending next chapter. _


	14. Gravitationally locked

For many different reasons Overwatch doesn’t put Harold on missions. His leg still needs time to heal, that is the most immediate excuse, but in truth the mission to Horizon had made some things complicated. Namely, the fact that Dr. Harold Winston is legally dead for the second time in a row. And honestly, Harold has had his fill of excitement for the time being. Action-packed fighting and running is all well and good, but he’s not built for it. Still, there's no way he can't be involved, so Winston convinces him to becomes a handler during the missions. If he’s honest with himself, he’s good at it. He keeps calm under pressure and he’s able to pick out the little details in the grainy surveillance data. Surveillance work like this isn’t too different from the work he did decades ago in Horizon. The difference is that it'll help the lives of many, rather than a few gorillas and some uptight Horizon scientists.

Siebren insists that being a handler is Harold's true calling, and he wants to agree, but he’s sure sooner or later he’ll feel that itch, that desire to help people more directly, to be there with the other Overwatch members in the thick of it. Until then, he’ll stay here and do what he's good at.

With a few exceptions, Siebren doesn’t go on missions either. He’s continuing his research into gravity and the nature of his powers, which has now expanded to include wormholes. Symmetra is helping him out on that matter in the hopes that perhaps his work could be incorporated into her hard light teleporter. It is a little bit of a shame he doesn’t go on more missions, because Harold always likes the way Siebren looks in his armour, especially the way that harness of his digs perfectly into his thighs. Then again, given the choice, he’d vastly prefer Siebren not wear his sexy armour and stick around the base. Who else is going to push his wheelchair and dote on him?

From the outside, there is the impression that Watchpoint: Gibraltar is having one of its slow days. An insider like Harold, however, knows that it’s never _not _busy. On his end alone, he’s been reading and re-reading his original research into his nanobots, searching for ways to improve the design. If he’s not doing that, he’s souping up his wheelchair with Torbjörn and Reinhardt to make it fly, and if he’s not doing that, he’s doing physical therapy with Mercy and Genji. And on the few instances he has free time, it’s usually spent with someone else. Often times it’s with Winston or Siebren. Occasionally it’s with Tracer or Mei or Sojourn.

Today, however, he’s expecting someone else. Someone he’s spent a lot of time tracking down and a lot more time convincing to come over.

At the edge of the base, a mech in the shape of a sphere rolls over, moving to a sudden stop in front of Harold. Siebren is holding onto the bars of Harold’s wheelchair, shaking his head incredulously while Winston laughs happily. The top of the mech pops open, revealing a large hamster wearing a small vest. The hamster waves.

“Hammond, it’s good to see you,” Winston says.

Hammond makes a series of squeaks. After seeing the blank stares from Harold and Siebren, he rolls his eyes audibly, and then punches something on the console of his mech. “_THE HAMSTER IS HAPPY TO SEE YOU ALL TOO.”_

Harold grins proudly. “I’ve heard you’ve been up to some trouble while I was gone.”

Hammond makes some discontent squeaks, eyebrows rising in surprise and shame. He crosses his arms and turns his head to the side with a huff.

“A pity," Harold smirks. "I’ve been looking forward to see what kind of trouble you can make with us. What do you say, little guy?”

Hamond makes a questioning squeak to Winston, who nods his head. His little cheeks bunches up into a wide smirk as he makes a series of confident squeaks. “_THIS SMALL MAMMAL WILL SHOW YOU WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE HE CAN GET UP TO._”

Siebren is still shaking his head. "This little rascal is going to be the end of me."

Hammond proves himself to be a rebellious little creature, and has a lot of fun messing with others while he’s not in his mech. Aside from Siebren, Harold, and Winston, no one else seems to have caught on that the pilot of Wrecking Ball is a genetically enhanced hamster. When he’s not working on his mech, he revels in pranking the others. His favourite victim is Torbjörn, moving things around in his workplace and modifying his gadgets so they work differently. No one questions the strange ball mech becoming a new member of the reformed Overwatch, and no one ever asks about Wrecking Ball’s true identity. Soon, Hammond becomes a member of this strange interspecies family, albeit a rebellious one who very much doesn’t like to be showered with affection. In other words, typical behaviour not unlike that of a human teenager. 

If Siebren has any opinions about suddenly being a father figure to a hamster and a gorilla, he doesn’t say anything. Privately, Harold thinks Siebren is beginning to like the strange new relationships he’s forming, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

* * *

Overwatch expands over time. New operatives from unlikely places arrives to join the fight. Hanzo, Genji’s brother, arrives to quiet fanfare, and keeps mostly to himself, taking his time to warm up to his new comrades and to his new life under Overwatch. Much louder and much more destructively is the arrival of Junkrat and Roadhog, whose explosive entrance made more than a few people question why Winston allowed the criminals to work under their banner, even if they were trying to go "legit". Symmetra and Mei were both especially vocal against Junkrat’s stay in particular, but while Mei continues to remain icy to the Junkers after their first meeting, Symmetra has slowly warmed up to the pair, to the surprise of everyone.

Orisa and her creator, Efi, both don’t show up in person as they are still protecting Numbani, but they are also made Overwatch agents through a long-distance call. Pharah pledges her allegiance and offers her support, but says she has an obligation to lead her own team in Helix first and foremost. Baptiste arrives suddenly one day with Sombra, making snide complaints about the lacking facilities like it’s an average day for them. Their reasons for joining are purposely vague whenever they’re questioned, and Harold suspects they’re ultimately self-serving, but they help with their respective talents and don’t push too many buttons.

One day, when he’s sure she’ll least expect it, Harold hands Sombra a framed photo. Her nose scrunches up.

“What’s this?” She asks.

“You asked me to get you some pictures. Turns out I had some photos in the data I retrieved up there. It’s old, but hey, you wanted a photo from space, right?”

For once, Sombra is silent, cradling the photograph gently like it’s made of the most fragile crystal. She observes the graininess of the photo, the pitch black of Space and the shimmering blue Earth, big and wide and beautiful.

Her lips thin. “I was joking, you know.”

“I know. But I found it, and you asked for it, so I thought, why not?”

Sombra smiles softly, a rare warm look that makes her look more youthful and vibrant. Like the flash of a camera, it's there for only a second before her warm smile turns into a colder smirk. “Things like this,” she waves the photo, “are why men like you get killed.”

Harold shrugs. “I came back from the dead twice now. And that's not counting all the other times I've nearly died in the past few months already. I almost used up all of my nine lives.”

Sombra snorts. “You’re not a cat. And this is a boring photo, you know. I’m not in it.”

“It’s a picture of the Earth. Everybody’s in it. Everyone's together.” He smiles. "That's the best thing about looking at Earth from the moon, I think."

Tracer will later ask Harold why Sombra is acting so nice for the rest of the day. For Sombra’s pride, he fakes ignorance. No one else needs to know.

* * *

As the nights grow longer, Harold finds himself retreating to his bedroom more often. Siebren is often there before him, helping Harold into bed before curling up next to him. He remembers those little moments in their past when they used to have playful arguments about who gets to be the little spoon. The good thing about being handicapped is that he gets first preference. Soon, warm, hairy arms surrounds his midsection, a hooked nose presses into his neck. A soft sigh breathes onto the sensitive flesh, making him shiver.

“Heard you had a fun day with Reinhardt,” Harold smirks.

“Don’t remind me,” Siebren groans. “My arm is sore from that arm-wrestling contest. Look at it.” He dangles it in front of Harold’s face. Harold lightly pushes it away.

“It’s your fault for accepting that challenge when Brigitte told you not to. She literally said that Reinhardt's super competitive and he doesn't hold back.”

“You say that after it is easier to look the cow in the ass,” Siebren mutters. “He was bragging to everybody about how he beat me so easily. It’s not my fault I do not regularly participate in such childish competitions of physical strength. If I used my powers, I could’ve won easily.”

“Sore loser.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Showoff.”

Siebren laughs. “Cute.”

“Handsome.” Harold chuckles when he lifts his arm, reaching behind to rub Siebren’s head. Siebren makes a sound in between a purr and a sigh, which makes Harold think of that time he worked with an animal shelter back when he was young and fresh out of university. Bony fingers crawl underneath his shirt, smoothing over his stomach. Harold can’t help but smile a little. “Siebren,” he warns.

“I’m not doing anything. Not tonight. I just want to feel you.”

Harold giggles incredulously. “You do realise what that sounds like in English, right?”

“You know what I mean,” Siebren scoffs. “I just…I need a reminder every now and then. To know you’re here. Even after everything we’ve gone through, you being by my side feels like a dream.”

“And what if it was? How’d you dream I’d end up here?”

“In my dreams, you wouldn’t _end up _here. We’d be together, have been together for a long time now.” Siebren smiles indulgently as he gazes up at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t have your accident, and neither would I. We’d be healthy and happy and content. We’d still be conducting research, but our progress will slow over time. We’d have a home somewhere far away from the hustle and bustle, with its own workspace for us to do any projects we so choose. Knowing you, you’d have convinced me to let us have a pet or two, or seven, or fifteen. I would not be surprised at all if our home turned into a literal zoo by this time.”

Harold giggles. It does sound like something he’d do.

Siebren continues, “I’d like to think we’d be married by that point. We’d have beautiful wedding rings and a photo album for the entire ceremony. I do not know if we’d have children—you care far too much about Winston and Hammond to not consider them as such—but I don’t think I would have disagreed if you desired to adopt or not. You would have worn me down by that point.”

“Funny how life goes,” Harold whispers. “Is that what you want?”

“Children? At my age? Absolutely not. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think that’s possible anymore if we take our current circumstances into consideration.”

“Not that. I’m talking about marriage.” He takes Siebren’s hand away from his stomach to the bed, entwining their fingers together. It’s impossibly warm and a bit sweaty. His eyes glance down to Siebren’s ring finger. “Given the chance, would you ever marry?”

Siebren gulps, trying to grasp the individual words—or perhaps even sentences—that came out of Harold’s mouth. His throat sounds dry. “I…m-marriage? It...it’s impossible, Harold. You’re legally dead for the second time in a row and I do not dare find out whether I'm officially alive or not. And even if we had rings and a ceremony and guests…” He trails off, no doubt fantasizing about what such a ceremony would be like. Harold tries to do the same, but can only imagine Winston in an ill-fitting tux and Hammond in a strangely fitted three piece suit. Suddenly, Siebren clears his throat loudly. “You and I, it’s…it’s not possible anymore.”

“I never said if it was possible now, or if it was with me. I’m saying, if you had the chance to marry anyone, and I mean _anyone_, right now, would you?”

Siebren slowly turns Harold to the other side so they’re facing each other. His smile is gentle and soft, in stark contrast to his sharp features. His piercing blue eyes look at Harold like he’s the most fascinating thing to ever exist in the world. Like he’s stardust, and complex mathematical equations, and the complete musical works of Erik Satie, and the secrets to gravity, all wrapped up with a bow on top.

Siebren smirks. “You already know the answer.”

Harold smiles bashfully. “You want to know my answer if you asked me that question?”

“No need,” Siebren chuckles. He presses a soft kiss to Harold’s jaw. “I know the answer to that too, my treasure.”

A nervous chuckle bubbles out of Harold's throat, a crimson blush overtaking his cheeks. His head is swimming and his body feels like Siebren's used his powers on him, making him drift higher and higher in the air. From anyone else it’s just a statement, but from Siebren that’s as good as a confession, a hidden promise of things to come or things he wishes would come. It’s hard trying to imagine how they’d be like if they were married because as beautiful as it might be, it doesn’t seem real. His reality is here with Overwatch, helping them travel across the globe to fight terrorists and save people. A peaceful life with Siebren by his side is out of his reach, not that he cares anymore. Reality is often better than fantasy, after all.

Siebren’s smiling at him. “You’re thinking again.”

Harold puts his hand on Siebren’s cheek. His eyes are focused on the space between their bodies. “Would you change anything about your life? Anything at all?”

Siebren’s lips fall as his gaze goes glassy. He thinks, seriously thinks, for several seconds. “There are things I wish did happen. I wished I didn’t lose my mind in my accident. I wish I didn’t have to hold the fragile pieces together. I wish I didn’t spend years mourning you when I thought you were dead. But I wouldn’t change anything. The law of entropy and the cosmic censorship hypothesis suggests that my current circumstances are the most optimal path my life could take.”

Harold smirks. “Just admit it. You like this, being the hero, saving people and fighting off the bad guys.”

Siebren rolls his eyes. “Perhaps I do.”

“_Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive_.” Harold quotes without thinking. “I wouldn’t change anything at all. If I did, I wouldn’t be alive. Literally and metaphorically.”

Siebren nods. “Dr Harold Winston is dead, just as Dr Siebren de Kuiper is dead. We’re different people, taking on their forms, living on with their faces but not their lives.” He runs his hand over Harold’s cheek, trailing over the catheter. “I’m Sigma, and you’re Charon. Let Dr Winston and Dr de Kuiper be the star-crossed lovers they were meant to be, up in the dark realms of space. Let us dare to see the world for what it could be.”

Harold smirks. “Should I call you Sigma now? Are you going to call me Harold?”

“I don’t care anymore. You should ask yourself those questions.”

“What, should I call myself Charon now?” Harold says incredulously.

“If you want to,” he replies. “You know who you are. And I can assure you, names do have power. Whatever you choose to call yourself, that will affect who you are and what you become.”

It’s easier said than done. It’s harder for him to let go of Harold. It is him, or at least a part of him, and it’s hard to think of himself as a different person or a different entity. He’s changed, he knew from the beginning that he has changed, but it wasn’t enough. That’s what he thought, but then it only takes a few little changes to become a different person. The man in front of him right now is a prime example of it. Is it possible that it applies to him as well? Can he be a different person, even when so much of him still feels like Harold?

Siebren is staring at him. “Well?”

Harold’s eyes lower. “Do you think I’ve changed enough?”

“What do you think?” Siebren asks.

For an instant Harold sees his reflection in Siebren’s glimmering eyes only to find himself staring at someone else. It’s not Harold Winston that Siebren stares so lovingly at. It’s a different person. A better person.

The corner of his lips quirks upwards. “You know what?" He says, "I think I finally have.”

* * *

The Orca drops down like butter in front of a desecrated Ayutthaya. The buildings that line the streets are old and crumbling and the streets are wide and filled with people. Stalls in the local market have been abandoned alongside the many vans and pick-up trucks. Many people are hiding in the ruins of the buildings. Others are trying to lead others to safety. In the distance, near the tourist traps and the temples stands a massive omnic, red lights scanning the horizon, hundreds of smaller omnics surrounding it.

The doors to the Orca open and four step out, the Overwatch emblem standing proud on their person. Tracer’s voice leaks through the comms.

“_Alright chaps, we’ve got us a big ol’ Omnic. Government wants to preserve the temples so we gotta lead it away to the forest nearby. I’ll try and do it from the ship but you guys gotta be prepared to take this thing down yourselves.”_

Sombra’s voice chirps in. _“You know I could hack this thing, right?”_

_“So why aren’t you here?” _Tracer grumbles_._

_“Ay, it's too hot there. You go have fun in Thailand."_

Tracer’s eyeroll was practically audible. “_You ready, Winston?”_

“I’m ready.” He turns his head. “What about you, Hammond?”

“_THE HAMSTER WANTS TO GET THE BALL ROLLING ALREADY.”_

“Sigma?” Winston asks.

“Sigma present,” he declares.

“Charon?”

He fiddles with the ring on his hand, his eyes glancing at Sigma’s neck, where an identical ring rests on a simple chain necklace. It took a lot of people by surprise that morning, waking up to find the rings on their person, sipping coffee side by side. There was no grand ceremony, no big reveal. One day they were just two people. The next, they have decided to considered themselves married husbands. It's not official, and the rings are cheap and symbolic, but as long as they believe it, that's all he cares about.

It’s still a bit weird to consider Sigma his husband. Until that word doesn't taste so strange from his tongue, he'll say it again and again, and even when it does taste sweet, he'll say it some more. It's weird in so many ways, but it feels so right.

As perfectly right as being in this moment is, with his new found family, despite the danger.

“Charon here, ready and waiting for someone to get themselves injured.” He glances mischievously at Wrecking Ball.

“_DIAGNOSIS: I PRESCRIBE YOU WITH WHINY [REDACTED] DISEASE.”_

Charon smirks. “And here I thought I brought you up to be a polite little boy.”

“_ANALYSIS: YOU MADE THIS SOFTWARE. CONCLUSION: DEAL WITH IT._”

“Settle down, you two,” Winston says. “We have a job to do. The world needs us heroes.”

Sigma scoffs lightly. “Do we count as heroes?”

"What, don't think we're heroes?" Charon asks.

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm just confirming how much collateral damage we obliged to make today," Sigma says.

Charon lets the back of his hand brush over Sigma's hand. This close, Harold can feel the strings of gravity tug at his fingertips, eager to pull him into its orbit. Inside his bloodstream, the nanobots activate, coursing through his body. He closes his eyes, savouring the sticky humid air and the thundering steps of the giant omnic and this feeling of completeness, being so close to his loved ones. He opens his eyes, dark brown irises flickering into gold. The last traces of Harold Winston leaves his body, and in his place Charon emerges.

By his side, everybody readies their weapons. With practiced hands he checks the jet injector and the backpack on his back filled with golden serum. He lets out a quiet gasp when he feels something grab onto his hand. Gloved fingers wrap around his, squeezing tightly before letting go. The man it belongs to nods his head towards the omnics and smiles. _Are you ready?_ Sigma asks.

There's no doubt in his mind. Charon nods, smiling proudly. _I'm ready._ Silently, the four of them leave the ship and approach the Omnics, ready to fight and save the city.

He's dared to change himself for the better. Now, it's time for him to do the same for the world.

* * *

_Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine._

_And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others._

_And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about._

_Haruki Murakami – ‘Kafka on the Shore’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ It's been a real pleasure writing this story. A lot of things didn't go as I originally intended, least of all Harold, who has grown into his own character as the story progressed. This ending was certainly not what I had in mind when I first wrote this story, but I think it's fitting.  
I might put like an appendix chapter after this if people are interested about the 'behind the scenes' stuff I didn't get to add in, or just a random analysis of my story. You guys gotta let me know on that. Otherwise, thank you for following my space dad story.  
As Harold says, never accept the world as it appears to be. Dare to see it for what it could be._


End file.
